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YARROW REVISITED 



AND OTHER 



POEMS. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 



" Poets .... dwell on earth 

To clothe whate'er the soul admires and loves 
With language and with numbers." — Akenside. 



iX 



NEW YORK: 



E. BARTLETT AND S. RAY NOR. 
1S35. 



5?4<J 



X2 



TUTTLE AND WEEKS, PRINTERS. 



TO 

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 

AS 

A Ty.STIMONY OF FRIENDSHIP, 

AND AN 

ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF INTELLECTUAL OBLIGATIO^^, 

THIS VOLUME 

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



Rydal Mount, 
Dec. 11, 1834. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



It was the Author's intention to reserve the 
contents of this vohime to he interspersed in some 
future edition of his miscellaneous Poems ; but it 
is obvious that, by so doing, the pui'chasers of his 
former works, who might wish for these Pieces 
also, would have reason to complain if they could 
not procure them without being obliged to re-pur- 
chase what they ah-eady possessed : from this con- 
sideration, and at the request of many of his 
friends, they are now published in a separate 
volume, uniforyi with former editions. 



CONTENTS 



POEMS COMPOSED DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 
AND ON THE ENGLISH BORDER, IN THE AUTUMN 
OF 1831. X 



Yarrow Revisited 



On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbots- 
ford, for Naples - - - - - - 21 

A Place of Burial in the South of Scotland - - 21 

On the Sight of a Manse in the South of Scotland - 22 

Composed in Roslin Chapel, during a Storm - 23 

The Trosachs - - - - - - 23 

The Pibroch's Note, discountenanced or mute - 24 

Composed in the Glen of Loch Etive - - - 25 
Eagles, composed at Dunollie Castle in the Bay of 

Oban - - - - - - -25 

In the Sound of Mull - - - - 26 

At Tyndrum - - - - . - 27 

The Earl of Breadalbane's ruined Mansion, and Family 

Burial-Place, near Killin - - - - 27 

Rest and be thankful, at the Head of Glencroe - 28 



VIII CONTENTS. 

Highland Hut - - - - . -29 

The Brownie - - - - - -29 

To the Planet Venus, an Evening Star. Composed 

at Loch Lomond - - - - - 30 

Bothwell Castle - - - - - .31 
Picture of Daniel in the Lion's Den, at Hamilton 

Palace ----.. 30 

The Avon, a Feeder of the Annan - - - 33 
Suggested by a View from an Eminence in Inglewood 

Forest --.-.. 33 

Hart's-hom Tree, near Penrith - - - - 34 

Countess's Pillar ----- 34 
Roman Antiquities. (From the Roman Station at 

Old Penrith) - - ... 3- 

Apology for the foregoing - - - 36 

.The Highland Broach .... 37 

Notes - - - - - - - 41 

The Egyptian Maid ; or, the Romance of the Water 

Lily • --...- 50 

Ode composed on May Morning - - - - 63 

To May --.... 65 

Liscription - - . - - 68 
Elegiac Musings in the Grounds of Coleorton Hall, 

the Seat of the late Sir George Beaumont, Bart. - 69 

Epitaph - - - - - - ri 

Inscription intended for a Stone in the Grounds of 

Rydal Mount - - - - - - 72 

Incident at Bruges ----- - 73 

A Jewish Family. (In a small Valley opposite St. 

Goar, upon the Rhine) - - - - 74 

Devotional Incitements - - - - 76 

Written in an Album - - - - 78 

The Armenian Lady's Love - - - - 79 

The Primrose of the Rock - - - - 8-5 

Presentiments -- - - - -87 



CONTENTS. iX 

*rhe Poet and the caged Turtledove - ^ - 90 

SONNETS. 

Chatsworth ! thy stately Mansion - - - 91 
Desponding Father ! mark this altered Bough - 91 
Roman Antiquities discovered, at Bishopstone, Here- 
fordshire - - - - - - 92 

St. Catherine of Ledbury - - - - 92 

The Russian Fugitive. Part I. ^ - - 93 

Part II. ^ . . 96 

Part III. - - - 99 

Part IV. - - - 102 

SOl^NETS. 

Why art thou silent ! - - - -106 

Four fiery steeds impatient of the Rein - - 107 

To the Author's Portrait - - - - 107 

Gold and Silver Fishes, in a Vase ... 108 

Liberty. (Sequel to the aboVe) ... no 

EVENING VOUTNTARIES. 

Calm is the fragrant Air, and loth to lose - -116 

Not in the lucid Intervals of Life - - - 117 

By the Side of Rydal Mere - - - -118 

Soft as a Cloud is yon blue Ridge - - -119 

The Leaves that rustled on this Oak-crowned Hill - 120 

The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire - - 121 

By the Sea-side - - . - - 122 

The Sun has long been set - - . - 124 

Throned in the Sun's descending Car - - 125 

The Laborer's Noon-day Hymn - - - 126 

A Wren's Nest 127 



X CO>-TE.\TS. 

SOKKETS, 1833, COMPOSED DURING A TOUR. 

Adieu ! Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown - - 1 30 
Wliy should the Enthusiast, journej'ing through this Isle 131 

The}' called thee merry England, in old time - 131 

To the River Greta, near Keswick - - - 132 

To the River Dervvent - - - - 133 

In Sight of the Town of Cockermoulh - - - 133 

Address from the Spirit of Cockermoulh Castle - 134 

Nun's Well, Brigham - - - - - 135 

To a Friend (on the Banks of the Derwent) - 135 
Mary Queen of Scots (landing at the Mouth of the 

Derwent, Workington) - - - - 13C 
In the Channel, between the Coast of Cumberland 

and the Isle of Man - - - - 137 

At Sea off the Isle of Man - - - - 137 

Desire we past Illusions to recall ? - - - 13S 

On entering Douglas Bay, Isle of Man - - - 139 

By the Sea-shore, Isle of Man - ... 139 

Isle of Man 140 

The Retired Marine Officer, Isle of Man - - 141 

By a Retired Mariner (a Friend of the Author) - 141 
At Bala-sala, Isle of Man. (Supposed to be written 

by a Friend of the Author) - - - 142 

Tyuwald Hill - - - - - - 143 

Despond who will — / heard a Voice exclaim - 143 

In the Frith of Clyde, Ailsa Crag. (July 17, 1830) - 144 

On the Frith of Clyde. (In a Steam-boat) - - 145 

On revisiting DunoUy Castle ... - 145 

The Dunolly Eagle - - - - - 146 

Cave of Stafla - - - - - - 147 

Cave of Staffa ..... 147 

Cave of Staffa - - - - - - 14S 

Flowers on the Top of the Pillars at the Entrance of 

the Cave ------ 149 

Ontolona! What can she afford ... - 149 

lona. (Upon Itnding) .... 150 



CONTENTS. X! 

The Black Stones of lona - - ■- -151 

Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell - 151 

Greenock - - - - - -152 

•' There !" said a Stripling, pointing with meet Pride 153 
Fancy and Tradition ----- 153 

The River Eden, Cumberland - - - 154 
Monument of Mrs Howard (by NoUekins) in Weth- 

eral Church, near Corby, on tlie Banks of the Eden 155 

Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou - - 155 

Nunnery ---.-.. 155 

Steam-boats, Viaducts, and Railways - - - 157 

Lowther ! in thy majestic Pile are seen - - 157 

To the Earl of Lonsdale - - - - 158 

To Cordelia M — — , HaJlsteads, Ullswater - 159 

Conclusion - - - - - -159 

Notes - - ' - - - - 161 

Lines written In the Album of the Countess of 

. Nov. 5, 1834 - - - - 166 

The Somnambulist - - - - - 169 

To , upon the Birth of her first-born Child, 

March, 1833 ----- 174 
The Warning, a Sequel to the foregoing. March, 1833 177 
If this great World of Joy and Pain - - 182 
Sonnet, composed after reading a Newspaper of the day 183 
Loving and Liking : irregular Verses addressed to a 
Child 184 

St. Bees, suggested in a Steam-boat off St. Bees' Heads 186 
Note •■ - - - - - - 193 

SONNETS. 

Deplorable his Lot who tills the Ground - - 194 

The Vaudois - - - - - - 195 

Praised be the Rivers, from their Mountain-springs - 195 
The Redbreast (suggested in a Westvvoreland Cottage) 196 



Xn CONTENTS. 

To 199 

Rural Illusions - - - - - 199 

This Lawn, &c. - - - - - - 201 

Thought on the Seasons - - - - 201 

Humanity, (Written in the Year 1829) - - 203 
Lines suggested by a Portrait from the Pencil of F. 

Stone .--...- 207 

The foregoing Subject resumed - - - 21 1 

Stanzas on the Power of Sound - - - 213 

Postscript - ' - ' -. '823 



YARROW REVISITED. 



[The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed 
with Sir Walter Scott, and other Friends visiting the Banks 
of the Yarrow under his guidance, immediately before his 
departure from Abbotsford, for Naples. 

The title Yarrow Revisited will stand in no need of ex- 
planation, for Readers acquainted with the Author's previous 
poems suggested by that celebrated stream.] 

The gallant youth, who may have gained, 

Or seeks, a " Winsome Marrow," 
Was hut an infant in the lap 

When first I looked on Yarrow ; 
Once more, by Newark's castle-gate, 

Long left without a warder, 
I stood, looked, listened, and with thee, 

Great Minstrel of the Border ! 

Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 

Their dignity installing 
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 

Were on the bough, or falling ; 
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed — 

The forest to embolden ; 
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 

Transparence through the golden. 
2 



18 TARROW REVISITED. 

For busy thoughts the stream flowed ors 

In foamy agitation ; 
And slept in many a crystal pool 

For quiet contemplation : 
No public and no private oaro 

Tlie freeborn mind enthralling, 
We made a day of happy hours, 

Our happy days recalling. 

Brisk youth appeared, the morn of yoatb^ 

With freaks of graceful folly, — 
Life's temperate noon, her sober eve. 

Her night not melancholy. 
Past, present, future,^all appeared 

In harmony united. 
Like guests that meet, and some from far. 

By cordial love invited. 

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 

And down the meadow ranging. 
Did meet us with unaltered face. 

Though we were changed and changing 
ICtheii, some natural shadows spread 

Our inwai-d prospect over, 
The soul's deep valley was not slow 

Its brightness to recover. 

Eternal blessings on the Muse, 

And her divine employment ! 
The blameless Muse, who trains her sons 

For hope and calm enjo3'ment ; 
Albeit sickness lingering yet 

Has o'er their pillow brooded ; 
And care waylay their steps — a sprite 

Not easily eluded. 



YAKROW REVISITED 19 

For thee, O Scott! compelled to change 

Green Eildon-bill and Cheviot, 
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes; 

And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 
For mild Sorento's breezy waves ; 

?vlay classic fanc}', linking 
With native fancy her fresh aid, 

Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 

O ! while they minister to thee, 

Each vying with the other, 
May health return to mellow age, 

With strength, her venturous brother; 
And Tiber, and each brook and rill 

Renowned in song and story. 
With unimagined beauty shine, 

Nor lose one ray of glory ! 

For thou, upon a hundred streams, 

By tales of love and sorrow, 
Of faithful love, undaunted truth. 

Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 

Where'er thy path invite thee. 
At parent Nature's grateful call, 

With gladness must requite thee. 

A gracious welcome shall be thine, 

Such looks of love and honor 
As thy own Yarrow gave to me 

When first I gazed upon her ; 
Beheld what I had feared to see, 

Unwilling to surrender 
Dreams treasured up from early days, 

The holy and the tender. 



20 



YARROW REVISITED. 



And what, for this frail world,. were alt 

That mortals do or suffer. 
Did no responsive harp, no pen, 

Memorial trihute offer ? 
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? 

Her features, could they win us, 
Unhelped by the poetic voice 

That hourly speaks within us ? 

Nor deem that localized romance 

Plays false with our affections ; 
Unsanctifies our tears — made sport 

For fanciful dejections : 
Ah, no ! the visions of the past 

Sustain the heart in feeling 
Life as she is — our changeful life, 

With friends and kindred dealing. 

Bear witness, ye, whose thoughts that day 

In Yarrow's groves were center'd \ 
Who through the silent portal arch 

Of mouldering Newark enter'd. 
And clomb the winding stair that once 

Too timidly was mounted 
By the " last Minstrel," (not the last) 

Ere he his tale recounted ! 

Flow on forever, Yarrow stream I 

Fulfil thy pensive duty. 
Well pleased that future bards should chant 

For simple hearts thy beauty, 
To dream-light dear while yet unseen. 

Dear to the common sunshine. 
And dearer still, as now I feel, 

To memory's shadowy moonshine t 



21 



ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT 
FROM ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES. 

A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain. 
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 
Engendered, hangs o'er Elldon's triple height : 
Spirits of power, assembled there, complain 
For kindred power departing from their sight ; 
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe 

strain, 
Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 
Lift up your hearts, ye mourners ! for the might 
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue 
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows. 
Follow this wondrous potentate. Be true, 
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea. 
Wafting your chai-ge to soft Parthenope ! 



II. 

A PLACE OF BURLIL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOT- 
LAND. 

Part fenced by man, part by a ragged steep 
That curbs a foaming brook, a grave-yard lies ; 
The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep ; 
Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes, 
Enter in dance. Of church or Sabbath ties. 



5>9 



No vestige now remains ; yet tliitiier creep 
Bereft ones, and in lowly angnish weep 
Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies. 
Proud tomb is none ; but nidely-sculptured knights 
By humble choice of plain old times, are seen 
Level Avith earth, among the hillocks green : 
Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites 
The spangled turf, and neighboring thickets ring 
With juhiiate from "the choirs of spring ! 



III. 

ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN THE SOUTH OF 
SCOTLAND. 

Say, yc far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills, 
Among the happiest-looking homes of men 
Scatter'd all Britain over, through deep glen. 
On airy upland, and by forest rills. 
And o'er wide plains whereon the sky distils 
Her lark's loved warblings ; does aught meet your 

ken 
More fit to animate the poet's pen, 
Aught that more surely by its aspect fills 
Pitre minds with sinless envy, than the abode 
Of the good priest : who faithful through all hours 
To his high charge, and truly serving God, 
Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers. 
Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod, 
Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers. 



23 



IV. 

COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL, DURING A 
STORM. 

The wind is now thy organist ; — a clank 
(We know not whence) ministers for a bell 
To mark some change of service. As the swell 
Of music reached its height, and even when sank 
The notes, in prelude, Roslin! to a blank 
Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof. 
Pillars, and arches, — not in vain time-proof, 
Though Christian rites be wanting ! From what 

bank 
Came those live herbs ? by what hand were they 

sown 
Where dew falls not, where i*ain-dix)ps seem un- 
known ? 
Yet in the temple they a friendly niche 
Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green- 

grov/n, 
Copy their heaxity more and more, and preach. 
Though mute, of ail things blending into one. 



V. 

THE TROSACHS. 



There 's not a nook within this solemn pass, 
But were an apt confessional for one 
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, 
That life is but a tale of morning grass. 



'i4 SONNETS. 

Witliercd at eve. From scenes of art that chase 
That thouglit avvay, turn, and with watchful eyes 
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities. 
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than 

glass 
Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, 
K from a golden perch of asjjen spray 
(October's workmanship to rival May) 
The ])ensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
This moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, 
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest. . 



VI, 

The Pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute ; 

The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy 

Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy ; 

The target mouldering like ungathered fruit ; 

The smoking steani-hoat eager in pursuit, 

As eagerly pursued ; the umbrella spread 

To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head — 

All speak of manners withering to the root. 

And some old honors, too, and passions high : 

Then may we ask, though pleased that thought 

should range 
Among the conquests of civility. 
Survives imagination — to the change 
Superior ? Help to virtue does it give ? 
if not, O mortals, better cease to live! 



25 



VII. 

COaiPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH ETINE. 

This land of rainbows, spanning glens whose waI3s, 
Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-colored mists, 
Of far-stretched Meres, whose salt flood never rests, 
Of tuneful caves and playful waterfalls. 
Of mountains varying momently their crests — 
Proud be this land ! whose poorest huts are halls 
Where Fancy entertains becoming guests ; 
While native song the heroic past recals. 
Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught. 
The Muse exclaimed ; but story now must hide 
Her trophies, fancy crouch ; — the course of pride 
Has been diverted, other lessons taught. 
That make the jjatriot-spirit bow her head 
Where the ail-conquering Roman feared to tread. 



VIII. 

EAGLES. 

COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE IN THE BAY OF OBAN. 

Dishonored rock and ruin ! that, by law 
Tyrannic, keep the bird of Jove embarred 
Like a lone criminal whose life is spared. 
Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last I saw- 
Was on the wing ; stooping, he struck with awe 
Man, bird, and beast ; then, with a consort paired, 
From a bold headland, their loved tery's guard, 



*J6 



Fiew liigli above Atlantic waves, to draw 

Light from the fountain of the setting sun. 

Such was this ])risoncr once ; and when his plumes 

The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on, 

in spirit, for a moment, lie resumes 

His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live free, 

Kis jiower, his beauty, and his majesty. 



IX. 

IN THE SOUND OF MULL. 

Tradition, be thou mute ! Oblivion, throw 
Thy veil, in mercy, o'er the records hung 
Round strath and mountain, stamped by the an- 
cient tongue 
On rock and ruin darkening as we go, — 
Spots where a word, ghost-like, survives to show 
What crimes from hate, or desperate love, have 

sprung ; 
From honor misconceived, or fancied wrong, 
V/hat feuds, not quenched but fed by mutual wo: 
Yet, though a wild vindictive race, untamed 
By civil arts and labors of the pen, 
Could gentleness be scorned by these fierce men, 
Who to spread wide the reverence that they claimed 
For patriarchal occupation?, named 
Yon towering peaks, " Shepherds of Etive Glen.'"* 

* In Gaelic Bvachaill Eiie. 



27 



X. 
AT TYNDRUM. 

Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, 
And all that Greece and Italj^ have sung 
Of swains reposing myrtle groves among ! 
Ours couch on naked rocks, wiil cross a brook 
Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look 
This way or that, or give it even a thought 
More than by snaoothest pathway may be brought 
Into a vacant mind. Can written book 
Teach what they learn ? Up, hardy mountaineer ! 
And guide the bard, ambitious to be one 
Of Nature's privy council, as thou art. 
On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and hear 
To what dread power he delegates his part 
On eartli, who works in the heaven of heavens, 
alone. 



XI. 



THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S RUINED MAN- 
SION, AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE. 

V/ell sangthe bard who called the grave, in strains 
Thoughtful and sad, the "narrow house." No 

style 
Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile 
Grief of her sting: nor cheat, where he detains 



The sleeping dust, stern death : how reconcile 
With truth, or with each other, decked remains 
Of a once warm abode, and tliat new pile, 
For the departed, built with curious pains 
And mausolean pomp ? Yet here they stand 
Together, — 'mid trim walks and artful bowers, 
To be looked down upon by ancient hills. 
That, for the living and the dead, demand 
And prompt a harmony of genuine powers ; 
Concord that elevates the mind, and stills. 



XII. 

REST AND BE THANKFUL, AT THE HEAD OF 
GLENCROE. 

Doubling and doubling with laborious walk, 
Who, that has gained at length the wished-for 

height, 
This brief, this simple way-side call can slight. 
And rests not thankful ? Whether cheered by talk 
With some loved friend, or by the unseen hawk 
Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams, that shine 
At the sun's outbreak, as with light divine, 
Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk 
Of valley flowers. Nor while the limbs repose, 
Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep 
Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air. 
And fishes front unmoved, tlie torrent's sweep, — 
So may the soul, through powers that faith bestows, 
Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss that 

angels share. ^ 



29 



XIII. 

HIGHLAND HUT. 

See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built cot, 
Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it 

may, 
Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray 
Like wreaths of vapor without stain or blot. 
The limpid mountain rill avoids it not ; 
And why shouldst thou ? If rightly trained and 

bred, 
Humanity is humble, — finds no spot 
Which her heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. 
The walls ai-e cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, 
Undressed the pathway leading to the door ; 
But love, as Nature loves, the lonely poor ; 
Seai'ch, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong- 
proof. 
Meek, patient, kind, and were its trials fewer, 
Belike less happy. — Stand no more aloof !* 



XIV. 

THE BROWNIE. 



[Upon a small island not far from the head of Loch Lo- 
mond, are some remains of an ancient building, which was 
for several years the abode of a solitary individual, one of 
the last survivors of the Clan of Macfarlane, once powerful 

*See Note, p. 41. 



30 



in that neighborhood. Passing along the shore opposite this 
island in the year 1814, the author learned these particulars, 
and that this person then living there had acquired the ap- 
pellation of " Tlie lirownie." [See " The Brownie's Cell," 
in the author's poems, vol. ii. p. 33, Am. edition, to which 
the following sonnet is a sequel.] 

" IIow disappeared lie ?" Ask the newt and toaJ ; 

Ask of his fellow men, and they will tell 

How he was found, cold as an icicle, 

Under an arch of that forlorn ahode ; 

Where he, unpropp'd, and l)y the gatherhig flood 

Of years hemm'd round, had dwelt,- prepared to try 

Privation's worst extremities, and die 

With no one near save the omnipresent God. 

Verily so to live was an awful choice — 

A choice that wears the aspect of a doom ; 

But in the mould of mercy all is cast 

For souls familiar with the eternal voice ; 

And this forgotten ta|jer to tlie last 

Drove from Itself. Ave trust, all frijchtfu! sloorn. 



XV. 

TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING STAR. 

COMPOSED AT LOCH LOMOND. 

Though joy attend thee, orient, at the birth 

Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most 

To watch thy course when day-light, fled from 

earth, 
In the gray sky hath left his lingering ghost, 



3! 



Perplexed as if between a splendor lost 

And splendor slowly mustering. Since the sitOy 

The absolute, the world-absorbing one, 

Relinquished half his empire to the host 

Emboldened by thy guidance, holy star, 

Holy as princely, who that looks on thee 

Touching, as now, in thy humility 

The mountain borders of this seat of care, 

Can question that thy countenance is bright, 

Celestial power, as much with love as light ? 



XVI. 

BOTHWELL CASTLE. 

Immured in Both well's towers, at times the bravf; 

(So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn 

The liberty they lost at Bannockburn. 

Once on those steeps / roamed at large, and have 

Jn mind the landscape, as if still in sight ; 

The river glides, the woods before me wave ; 

But, by occasion tempted, now I crave 

Needless renewal of an old delight. 

Better to thank a dear and long-past day 

For joy its sunny hours were free to give 

Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost. 

Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams 

obey. 
Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive : 
How little that she cherishes is lost ! 



32 



XVII. 

PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN, AT 
HAMILTON PALACE. 

AaiiD a fertile region green with wood 

And fresh with rivers, well doth it become 

The Ducal owner, in his palace-home 

To naturalize this tawny lion brood ; 

Children of art, that claim strange brotherhood, 

Couched in their den, with those that roam at large 

Over the burning wilderness, and charge 

The wind with terror while tliey roar for food. 

But these are satiate, and a stillness drear 

Calls into life a more enduring fear ; 

Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave 

Daunt him — if his companions, now be-drowsed, 

Yawning and listless, were by hunger roused: 

Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save. 



XVIII. 

THE AVON (a feeder of the Annan). 

Avon — a precious, an immortal name! 

Yet is it one that other rivulets bear 

Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear 

Like, this contented, though unknown to fame : 

For great and sacred is the modest claim 

Of streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow; 



33 



And ne'er did genius slight them, as they go, 
Tree, flower and green herb, feeding without blame. 
But praise can waste her voice on work of tears, 
Anguish, and death: full oft where innocent blood 
Has mixed its current with the limpid flood. 
Her heaven-offending trophies glory rears ; 
Never for like distinction may the good 
Shrink from thy name, pure rill, with unpleased 



XIX. 

SUGGESTED BY A VIEW PROM AN EMINENCE 
IN INGLEWOOD FOREST. 

The forest huge of ancient Caledon 

Is but a name, nor more is Inglewood, 

That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood : 

On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone ; 

Yet still, though unappropriate wild be none, 

Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might 

deign 
With Clyixi o' the Clough, were they alive again. 
To kill for merry feast their venison. 
Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding shade 
His Church with monumental wreck bestrewn ; 
The feudal Warrior-chief, a ghost unlaid. 
Hath still his castle, though a skeleton. 
That he may watch by night, and lessons con 
Of power that perishes, and rights that fade. 



M 



XX. 

HART'S-HORN TREE, NEAR PENRITH. 

Hkre stood an oak, that long had borne aflixcd 
To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art, 
Among its withering topmost branches mixed. 
The pahny antlers of a hunted hart, 
Whom the dog Hercules pursued — his part 
Each desperately sustaining, till at last • 
Both sank and died, the life-veins of the chased 
And chaser bursting here with one dire smart. 
Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat! 
High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride ; 
Say, rather, with that generous sympathy 
That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat ; 
And for this feeling's sake, let no one chide 
Verse that would guard thy memory, HarVs-horn 
Tree .' * 



XXI. 

COUNTESS'S PILLAR, 

[On the roadside between Penrith and Appleby, there 
stands a pillar with the following inscription : — 

"This pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne, 
Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial ot 
her last parting with her pious mother, Margaret, Countess 

* See Note, p. 46. 



35 



Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in 
memory whereof she hath left an annuity of -il. to be dis- 
tributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d 
day of April for ever, upon the steue table placed hard by. 
Laus Deo!"] 

WniiiE the poor gather round, ti'.l the end of time 
-May this bright flower of chanty display 
Its bloom unfolding at the appointed day : 
Flower than the loveliest of the vernal prime 
Lovelier — transplanted from heaven's purest 

clime! 
" Charity never fliileth :" on that creed, 
More than on written testament or deed, 
'i'he pious lady built with hope sublime. 
Alms on this stone to be dealt out, for ever I 
" Laus Deo." Many a stranger passing by 
lias with that parting mixed a filial sigh, 
Blest its humane memorial's fond endeavor ; 
And, fastening on those lines an eye tear-glazed, 
Mas ended, though no clerk, witli God he praised '. 



XXII. 

ROMAN ANTiaUITIES, 

(fHOM the ROMAN STATION AT OLD PENRITH.) 

llow profitless the relics that we cull, 
Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, 
Unless they chasten fancies that presume 
Too high, or idle agitations lull ! 



36 APOLOGY. 

Oftlie world's flatteries if tlie brain be full. 
To have no s(?at for thought were better doom. 
Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull 
Of him who gloried in its nodding plume. 
Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they 
Our fond regrets, insatiate in their grasj) ? 
The sage's theory ? the poet's lay ? 
Mere Fibulae without a robe to clasp ; 
Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recalls ^ 
Urns without aslies, tearless lacrymals ! - 



No more : the end is sudden and abrupt, 

Abrupt — as without preconceived design 

Was the beginning, yet the several lays 

Have moved in order, to each other bound 

By a continuous and acknowledged tie 

Though unapparent, like those shapes distinct 

That yet survive ensculptured on the walls 

Of jjalace, or of temple, 'mid the wreck 

Of famed Persepolis ; each following each, 

x\s might beseem a stately embassy. 

In set array ; these bearing in their hands 

Ensigns of civil power, weapon of war, 

Or gift, to be presented at the throne 

Of the Great King ; and others, as they go 

In i)riestly vest, with holy offerings charged, 

Or leading victims drest for sacrifice. 

Nor will the muse condemn, or treat with scorn 

Our ministration, humble but sincere, 



THE HIGHLAND BROACH. .'i7 

That from a threshold loved by every muse 
Its impulse took — that sorrow-stricken door, 
Whence, as a current from its fountain-head, 
Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed, 
Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength 
From kindred souixes ; whiie around us sighed 
(Life's three first seasons having passed awayj 
Tieaf-scatteriug winds, and hoar-frost sprinklings 

M], 
Foretaste of winter, on the moor'and heights ; 
And every day brought with it tidings new 
Of rash change, ominous for the public weak 
Hence, if dejection have too oft encroached 
Upon that sweet and tender melancholy 
Which may itself be cherished and caressed 
More than enough, a fault so )iatural, 
Even with the young, the hopeful or the ^(\y, 
For proinpt forgiveness will not sue in vain. 



THE HIGHLAND BROACH. 

JF to tradition faith be due, 

And echoes from old verse speak true, 

Ere the meek saint, Columba, bore 

<Jlad tidings to lona's shore, 

On common light of nature blessed 

The mountain region of the west, 

A land where gentle manners ruled 

O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled, 

That raised, for centuries, a bar 

hnpervious to the tide of war ; 



tJ8 THE HIGHLAND BROACH. 

Yot peaceful arts diil entrance pain 
Wiiere Iianglity force liad striven in vain ; 
And, 'ruid tlio works of skilful hands, 
}5y wanderers brought from foreign lands 
And various climes, was not unknown 
The clasp that fixed the Roman gowu ; 
Thd Fihula, wiio-so shape, I ween, 
Still in the Highland Broacli is seen. 
The silver Broach of massy frame, 
Worn at the breast of some grave Dame- 
On road or path, or at the door 
Of fern-tliatched hut or heatliy moor: 
But delicate of yore its mould, 
And the material finest gold ; 
As might beseem the fairest fair, 
Whether she graced a royal chair, 
Or shed, within a vaulted hall. 
No fancied lustre on the w^all 
WJiere sliields of mighty heroes hung-,^ 
While Fiugal heard what Ossian sung. 

The heroic age ex[)ired — it slept 
Deep in its tomb : — the bramble crept 
O'er Fingal's hearth ; the grassy sod 
Grew on the floors his sons had trod : 
Malvina ! where art tliou ? Their state 
The noblest-born must abdicate, 
The fairest, while with fire and sword 
Come spoilers — horde impelling horde, 
Must walk tlie sorrowing mountains, drest 
By ruder hands in homelier vest. 
Yet still the female l)osom lent, 
And loved to 1,'orrow, ornament ; 
Still was its inner world a place 
Reached bv the dews of heavenlv grace ; 



THE HIGHLAND BROACH. 35) 

Still pity to this last retreat 
Clove fondly ; to its favorite seat 
Love wound its way by soft approach, 
Beneath a massier Highland Broach. 

When alternations came of rage 

Yet fiercer, in a darker age ; 

And feuds, where, clan encountering clan, 

The weaker perished to a man ; 

For maid and mother, when despair 

Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer, 

One small possession lacked not poAver, 

Provided in a calmer hour, 

To meet such need as might befall — 

Roof, raiment, bread, or burial; 

For women, evea of tears bereft. 

The hidden silver Broach was left. 

As generations come and go, 
Their arts, theif customs, ebb and flow ; 
Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, 
And feeble, of themselves, decay ; 
What poor abodes the heir-loom hide. 
In which the castle once took pride ! 
Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth, 
If saved at all, are saved by stealth. 
Lo J ships, from seas by nature barred. 
Mount along ways by man prepared ; 
And in far-stretching vales, whose streams 
Seek other seas, their canvas gleams. 
Lo ! busy towns spring up, on coasts 
Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts ; 
Soon, like a lingering star forlorn 
Among the novelties of morn. 
While young delights on old encroach, 
Will vanish the last Highland Broach. 



40 THE HIGHLAND BROACH. 

But when, from out their viewless bed, 
Like vapors, years have rolled and spread : 
And this poor verse, and worthier lays, 
Shall yield no light of love or praise. 
Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough, 
Or toi-rent from the mountain's brow. 
Or whirlwind, reckless what his might 
Entombs, or forces into light, 
Blind chance, a volunteer ally, 
That oft befriends antiquity, 
And clears oblivion from reproach, 
May render back the Highland Broach. 



The exact resemblance which the old Broach (still in use, 
though rarely met with, among the Highlanders) bears to 
the Roman Fibula must strike every one, and occurs with 
the plaid and kilt to recall to mind the communication which 
the ancient Romans had with this remote country. How 
much the Broach is sometimes prized by persons in humble 
stations may be gathered from an occurrence mentioned to me 
by a female friend. She had had an opportunity of benefit- 
ing a poor old woman in her own hut, who, wishing to make 
a return, said to her daughter, in Erse, in a tone of plaintive 
earnestness, " I would give anything I have, but I hope she 
does not wish for my Broach!" and uttering these words, 
she put her hand upon the Broach which fastened her ker- 
chief, and which, she imagined, had attracted the eye of her 
benefactress. 



NOTES 



Highland Hut. Page 29. 

This sonnet describes the exterior of a Highland hut, as 
often seen under morning or evening sunshine. The reader 
may not be displeased with the following extract from the 
journal of a Lady, my fellow-traveller in Scotland, in the 
autumn of 1803, which accurately describes, under particular 
circumstances, the beautiful appearance of the interior of 
one of these rude habitations. 

" On our return from the Trossachs the evening began to 
darken, and it rained so hea^dly that we were completely wet 
before we had come two miles, and it was dark when we 
landed with our boatman, at his hut upon the banks of Loch 
Katrine. I was faint from cold : the good woman had pro- 
vided, according to her promise, a better fire than we had 
found in the morning ; and, indeed, when I sat dovm in the 
chimney corner of her smoky biggin, I thought I had never 
felt more comfortable in my life : a pan of coffee was boiling 
for us, and, having put our clothes in the way of drying, we 
all sat down thankful for a shelter. We could not prevail 
upon our boatman, the master of the house, to draw near the 
fire, though he was cold and wet, or to suffer his wife to get 
him dry clothes till she had served us, which she did most , 
willingly, though not very expeditiously. 

'•' A Cumberland man of the same rank would not have had 
such a notion of what was fit and right in his own house, or 



42 



if he had, one would have accused him of servility; but in 
the Highlander it onl y seemed like politeness (however erro- 
neous and painful to us), naturally growing out of the depen- 
dence of the inferiors of the clan upon their laird : he did not, 
however, refuse to let his wife bring out the whisky bottle 
for his refreshment, at our request. " She keeps a dram," 
as the phrase is : indeed, I believe there is scarcely a lonely 
house by the waj'side, in Scotland, where travellers may not 
he accommodated with a dram. We asked for sugar, butter, 
barley-bread, and milk ; and, with a smile and a stare more 
of kindness than wonder, she replied, " Ye'll .get that," 
bringing each article separately. We caroused our cups of 
coffee, laughing like cliildren at the strange atmosphere in 
which we were : the smoke came in gusts, and spread along 
the walls ; and above our heads in the chimney (where the 
hens were roosting) like clouds in the sky. We laughed and 
laughed again, in spite of the smarting of our eyes, yet had 
a quieter pleasure in observing the beauty of the beams and 
rafters gleaming between the clouds of smoke : they had 
been crusted over, and varnished by many winters, till, where 
the firelight fell upon them, they had become as glossy as 
black rocks, on a sunny day, cased in ice. When we had 
eaten our supper we sat about half an hour, and I think I 
never felt so deeply the blessing of a hospitable welcome and 
a warm fire. The man of the house repeated from time to 
time that we should often tell of this night when we got to 
our homes, and interposed praises of his own lake, which he 
had more than once, when we were returning in the boat, 
ventured to say was "bonnier than Loch Lomond." Our 
companion from the Trossachs, who, it appeared, was an 
Edinburgh drawing master going, during the vacation, on n 
pedestrian tour to John o' Groat's house, was to sleep in the 
barn with my fellow-travellers, where the man said he had 
plenty of dry hay. I do not believe that the hay of the 
Highlands is ever very dry, but thi.s year it had a better 
chance than usual : wet or dr}^, however, the next morning 



43 



they said they had slej^t comfortably. When I went to bed, 
the mistress, desiring me to " ^o ben," attended me with a 
candle, and assured me that the bed was dry, though not 
'•'sic as I had been used to." It was of chafl'; there were 
two others in the room, a cupboard and two chests, upon one 
of which stood milk in wooden vessels, covered over. The 
walls of the whole house were of stone unplastered : it con- 
sisted of three apartments, the cowhouse at one end, the 
kitchen or house in the middle, and the spence at the other 
end ; the rooms were divided, not up to the rigging, but only 
to the beginning of the roof, so that there was a free passage 
for light and smoke from one end of the house to the other. 
I went to bed some time before the rest of the family : the 
door was shut between us, and they had a bright fire, which 
I could not see, but the light it sent up among the varnished 
rafters and beams, which crossed each other in almost as 
intricate and fantastic a manner as I have seen the under 
boughs of a large beech tree withered by the depth of shade 
above, produced the most beautiful effect that can be conceiv- 
ed. It was like what I should suppose an underground cave 
or temple to be, with a dripping or moist roof, and the moon- 
light entering in upon it by some means or other ; and yet 
the colors were more like those of melted gems. I lay 
looking up till the light of the fire faded away, and the man 
and his wife and child had crept into their bed at the other 
end of the room : I did not sleep much, but passed a comfort- 
able night ; for my bed, though hard, was warm and clean : 
the unusualness of my situation prevented me from sleeping. 
I could hear the waves beat against the shore of the lake ; a 
little rill close to the door made a much louder noise, and, 
when I sat up in my bed, I could see the lake through an 
open window-place at the bed's head. Add to this, it rained 
all night. I was less occupied by remembrance of the Tros- 
sachs, beautiful as they were, than the vision of the High- 
land hut, which I could not get out of my head ; I thought 
of the Pairy-land of Spenser, and what I had read in romance 



44 



at other times, and then what a feast it would be for a Lon- 
don Pantomime-maker could he but transplant it to Drury 
Lane, wth all its beautiful colors !" — MS. 



Bothwdl Castle. Paje 31. Line 14. 
" Once on those steeps /roamed." 

The following is from the same MS., and gives an account 
of the visit to Bothwell Castle here alluded to : — 

" It was exceedingly delightful to enter thus unexpectedly 
upon such a beautiful region. The castle stands nobly, over- 
looking the Clyde. When we came up to it, I was hurt to 
see that flower-borders had taken place of the natural over- 
growings of the ruin, the scattered stones and wild plants. 
It is a large and grand pile of red freestone, harmonising per- 
fectly with the rocks of the river, from which, no doubt, it 
has been hewn. When I was a little accustomed to the im- 
naturalness of a modern garden, I could not help admiring 
the excessive beauty and luxuriance of some of the plants, 
particularly the purple-flowered clematis, and a broad- 
leafed creeping plant without flowers, which scrambled up 
the castle wall, along with the ivy, and spread its vine-like 
branches so lavishly that it seemed to be in its natural situa- 
tion, and one could not help thinking that, though not self- 
planted among the ruins of this country, it must somewhere 
have its native abode in such places. If Bothwell Castle 
had not been close to the Douglas mansion, we should have 
been disgusted with the possessor's miserable conception of 
adorning such a venerable ruin ; but it is so very near to the 
house, that of necessity the pleasure-grounds must have ex- 
tended beyond it, and perhaps the neatness of a shaven lawn 
and the complete desolation natural to a ruin might have 
made an unpleasing contrast ; and, besides being within the 
precincts of the pleasure-grounds, and so very near the dwell- 
ing of a noble family, it has forfeited, in some degree, its 



45 



independent majesty, and becomes a tributary to the mansion : 
its solitude being interrupted, it has no longer the command 
over the mind in sending it back into past times, or excluding 
the ordinary feelings wliich we bear about us in daily life. 
We had then only to regret that the castle and the house 
were so near to each other ; and it is impossible not to regret 
it ; for the ruin presides in state over the river, far from city 
or town, as if it might have a peculiar privilege to preserve 
its memorials of past ages and maintain its own character 
for centuries to come. We sat upon a bench imder the high 
trees, and had beautiful views of the different reaches of the 
river, above and below. On the opposite bank, which is 
finely wooded with elms and other trees, are the remains of 
a priory built upon a rock ; and rock and ruin are so blended, 
that it is impossible to separate the one from the other. 
Nothing can be more beautiful than the little remnant of this 
holy place : elm trees (for we were near enough to distin- 
guish them by their branches) grow out of the walls, and 
overshadow a small, but very elegant window. It can 
scarcely be conceived what a grace the castle and priory im- 
part to each other ; and the river Clyde, flows on smooth and 
unruffled below, seeming to my thoughts more in harmony 
with the sober and stately images of former times, than if it 
had roared over a rocky channel forcing its sound upon the 
ear. It blended gently with the warbling of the smaller 
birds, and the chattering of the larger ones, that had made 
their nests m the ruins. In this fortress the chief of the 
English nobility were confined after the battle of Bannock- 
burn. If a man is to be a prisoner, he scarcely could have a 
more pleasant place to solace his captivity ; but I thought 
that, for close confinement, I should prefer the banks of a 
lake or the seaside. The greatest charm of a brook or river 
is in the liberty to pursue it through its windings ; you can 
then take it in whatever mood you like : silent or noisy, 
sportive or quiet. The beauties of a brook or river must be 
sought, and the pleasure is in going in search of them ; those 



46 



of a lake, or of the sea, come to you of themselves. These 
rude warriors cared little, perhaps, about either ; and yet, if 
one may judge from the writing of Chaucer, and from the 
old romances, more interesting passions were connected with 
natural objects in the days of chivalry than now ; though 
going in search of scenery, as it is called, had not then been 
thought of. I had previously heard nothing of BotlnvcU 
Castle, at least nothing that I remembered ; therefore, per 
haps, my pleasure was greater, compared with what I receiv- 
ed elsewhere, than others might feel." — MS. Joicriial. 



The Harfs-horn Tree. Page 3-!. 
" In the time of the first Robert de Cliiford, in the year 
1333 or 1334, Edward Baliol king of Scotland came into 
Westmorland, and stayed some time with the said Robert at 
his castles of Appleby, Brougham, and Pendragon. And 
during that time they ran a stag by a single greyhound out 
of Whinfell Park to Redkirk, in Scotland, and back again to 
this place ; where, being both spent, the stag leaped over the 
pales, but died on the other side ; and the greyhound, at- 
tempting to leap, fell, and died on the contrary side. In 
memory of this fact the stag's horns were nailed upon a tree 
just by, and (the dog being named Hercules) this rythme 
was made upon them : 

' Hercules kill'd Hart a greese 
And Hart a greese kill'd Hercules.' 

The tree to this day bears the name of Hart's-horn Tree. 
The horns in process of time were almost grown over by the 
growth of the tree, and another pair was put up in their 
place." — Nicholson and Bums's History of Westmoreland 
and Cumberland. 

The tree has now disappeared, but the author of these 
poems well remembers its imposing appearance as it stood, 
in a decayed state, by the side of the high road leading from 



47 



Pearith to Appleby. This whole neighborhood abounds in 
interesting traditions and vestiges of antiquity, viz., Julian's 
Bower ; Brougham and Penrith Castles ; Penrith Beacon, 
and the curious remains in Penrith churchyard; Arthur's 
Round Table ; the excavation, called the Giant's Cave, on 
the banks of the Eamont ; Long Meg and her Daughters 
near Eden, &c, &c. 



THE EGYPTIAN MAID ; 

OR, THE ROMANCE OF THE WATER LILY. 

[For the names and persons in the following poem, see the 
" History of the renowned Prince Arthur and his Knights 
of the Round Table ;" for the rest the Author is answerable ; 
only it may be proper to add, that the Lotus, with the bust of 
the goddess appearing to rise out of the full-blown flower, 
was suggested by the beautiful work of ancient art, once in- 
cluded among the Townley Marbles, and now in the British 
Museum.] 

While Merlin paced the Cornish sands, 
Forth-looking toward the Rocks of Scilly 
The pleased enchanter was aware 
Of a bright ship that seemed to hang in air, 
Yet was she work of mortal hands, 
And took from men her name — The Water Lilt, 

Soft was the wind, that landward blew; 
And, as the moon, o'er some dark hill ascendant, 
Grows from a little edge of light 
To a full orb, this pinnace bright, 
Became, as nearer to the coast she drew, 
More glorious, with spread sail and stretiming })eu- 
dant. 
4 



50 THE EGTrTIA.N MAID; OK, 

Upon this winged shape so fair 
Sage Merlin gazed with admiration : 
Her lineaments, thought he, surpass 
Aught that was ever shown in magic glass; 
Was ever built with patient care ; 
Or. at the touch, set forth with wondcrous trans- 
formation. 

Now, through a mechanist, whose skill 
Shames the degenerate grasp of modern science, 
Grave Merlin (and I)elike the more 
For practising occult and perilous lore) 
Was subject to a freakish will 
That snapped good thoughts, or scared them with 
defiance. 

Provoked to envious spleen, he cast 
An altered look upon the advancing stranger 
Whom he had hailed with joy, and cried, 
"My art shall help to tame her pride" — 
Anon the breeze became a blast, 
And the waves rose, the sky portended danger. 

With thrilling word, and potent sign 
Traced on the beach, his work the sorcerer urges ; 
The clouds in blacker clouds are lost, 
Like spiteful fiends that vanish, crossed 
By fiends of aspect more malign ; 
And the winds roused the deep with fiercer 
scourges. 

But worthy of the name she bore 
Was this sea-flower, this buoyant galley ; 
Supreme in loveliness and grace 
Of motion, whether in the embrace 
Of trusty anchorage, or scudding o'er 
The main flood roughened into hill and valley. 



THE RO>IA]VCE OF THE WATER LILY. 51 

Behold, how wantonly she laves 
Her sides, the wizard's craft confounding ; 
Like something out of ocean sprung 
To be forever fresh and young, 
Breasts the sea-flashes, and huge waves 
Top-gallant high, rebounding and rebounding! 

But ocean under magic heaves, 
And cannot spare the thing he cherished : 
Ah! what avails that she was fair, 
Luminous, blithe, and debonair? 
The storm has stripped her of her leaves ; 
The Lily floats no longer I — She hath perished. 

Grieve for her. — She deserves no less ; . 
So like, yet so unlike, a living creature 1 
No heart had she, no busy brain ■, 
Though loved, she could not love again ; 
Though pitied, /eeZ her own distress; 
Nor aught that troubles us, the fools of nature. 

Yet is there cause for gushing tears; 
So richly was this galley laden ; 
A fairer than herself she bore, 
And, in her struggles, cast ashore; 
A lovely one, who nothing hears 
Of wind or wave — a meek and guileless maiden. 

Into a cave had Merlin fled 

From mischief, caused by spells himself had 

muttered ; 
And, while repentant all too late, 
In moody posture there he sate, 
He heard a voice, and saw, with half-raised hea.d, 
A visitant by whom these w^ords were uttered : 



52 THE EGYPTIAN MAID ; OR, 

"On Christian sei'vice this frail bark 
Sailed" (hear me, Merlin I) " under high pro- 
tection, 
Though on her prow a sign of heathen power 
Was carved — a goddess with a lily flower, 
The old Egj'ptian's emblematic mark 
Of joy immortal and of pure affection. 

"Her course was for the British strand. 

Her freight it was a damsel peerless ; 

God reigns above, and spirits strong 
. May gather to avenge this wrong 

Done to the princess, and her land 
Which she in duly left, though sad not cheerless- 

" And to Caerleon's loftiest tower 
Soon will the Knights of Arthur's Table 
A cry of lamentation send ; 
And all will weep who there attend, 
To grace that stranger's bridal hour, 
For whom the sea was made unnavigable. 

" Shame ! should a child of royal line 
Die through the blindness of thy malice :*' 
Thus to the Necromancer spake 
Nina, the lady of the lake, 
A gentle sorceress, and benign. 
Who ne'er embittered any good man's chalice. 

" What boots," continued she, " to mourn ? 
To expiate thy sin endeavor! 
From tlie bleak isle where she is laid, 
Fetched by our art, the Egyptian Maid 
May yet to Arthur's court be borne 
Cold as she is, ere life be fled forever. 



THE ROMANCE OF THE WATER LILY. 53 

" My pearly boat, a shining light, 
That brought me down that sunless river, 
Will bear me on from wave to wave, 
And back with her to this sea-cave ; 
Then Merlin ! for a rapid flight 
Through air to thee my charge will I deliver. 

" The very swiftest of thy cars 
Must, when my part is done, be ready ; 
Meanwhile, for further guidance look 
Into thy own prophetic book; 
And, if that fail, consult the stars 
To learn thy course ; farewell ! be prompt and 
steady.'' 

"This scarcely spoken, she again 
Was seated in her gleaming shallop, 
That, o'er the yet-distempered deep. 
Pursued its way Avith bird-like sweep. 
Or like a steed, without a rein, 
Urged o'er the wilderness in sportive gallop. 

Soon did the gentle Nina reach 
That isle without a house or haven ; 
Landing, she found not what she sought, 
Nor saw of wreck or ruin aught 
But a carved Lotus cast upon the shore 
By the fierce waves, a flower in marble graven. 

Sad relique, but how fair the while ! 
For gently each from each retreating 
With backward curve, the leaves revealed 
The bosom half, and half concealed. 
Of a divinity, that seemed to smile 
On Nina as she passed, with hopeful greeting. 



54 THE EGYPTIAN MAID ; OR, 

No qmst was hers of vague desire, 
Of tortured hope and purpose shaken ; 
Following the margin of a bay, 
She spied the lonely cast-away, 
Unmarred, unstripped of her attire, 
But with closed eyes, — of breath and bloom for- 
saken. 

Then Nina, stooping down, embraced, 
With tenderness and mild emotion, 
The damsel in that tranee embound ; 
And, while she raised her from the ground. 
And in the pearly shallop placed. 
Sleep fell upon the air, and stilled the ocean. 

Tlie turmoil hushed, celestial springs 

Of music opened, and there came a blending 

Of fragrance,- underived from earth. 

With gleams that owed not to the sun their 

birth, 
And that soft rustling of invisible wings 
Which angels make, on works of love descending^ 

And Nina heard a sweeter voice 
Than if the goddess of the flower had spoken : 
" Thou hast achieved, fair dame ! what none 
Less pure in spirit could have done ; 
Go, in thy enterprise rejoice ! 
Air, earth, sya, sky, and heaven, success betoken," 

So cheered she left that island bleak, 
A bare rock of the Scilly cluster ; 
And, as they traversed the smooth brine, 
The self-illumined brigantine 
Shed, on the slumberer's cold wan cheek 
And pallid brow, a melancholy lustre. 



THE ROMANCE OF THE WATER LILY. 55 

Fleet was their course, and when they caine 
To the dim cavern, whence the river 
Issued into the salt-sea flood, 
Merlin, as fixed in thought he stood. 
Was thus accosted by the dame : 
^' Behold to thee my charge I now deliver ! 

"But where attends thy chariot — where ?" 
Quoth Merlin, " Even as I was bidden. 
So have I done ; as trusty as thy barge 
M}^ vehicle shall prove — O precious charge ! 
If this be sleep, how soft ! if death, how fair ! 
Much have my books disclosed, but the end is 
hidden." 

He spake, and glidin^^ into view 

Forth from the grotto's dimmest chamber 

Came two mute swans, whose plumes of duskv 

white 
Changed, as the pair approached the light, 
Drawing an ebon car, their hue 
(Like clouds of sunset) into lucid amber. 

Once more did gentle Nina lift 
The princess, passive to all changes: 
The car received her ; then up-went 
Into the ethereal element 
The birds with progress smooth and swift 
As thought, v/hen through bright regions memory 
ranges. 

Sage Merlin, at the slumberer's side. 
Instructs tlie swans their way to measure ; 
And soon Caerleon's towers appeared, 
And notes of minstrelsy were heard 



50 THE EGYPTIAN MAID ; OR, 

From rich pavilions spreading wide, 
For some liigh day of long-expected pleasure. 

Awe-stricken stood both knights and dames 
Ere on firm ground the car alighted ; 
Eftsoons astonishment was past, 
For in that face they saw the last] 
Last lingering look of clay, that tames 
All pride, by which all happiness is blighted. 

Said Merlin, "Mighty king, fair lords. 
Away with feasts and tilt and tourney ! 
Ye saw, throughout this Royal House, 
Ye heard, a rocking marvellous 
Of turrets, and a clash of swords 
Self-shaken, as I closed my airy journey. 

" Lo ! by a destiny well known 
To mortals, joy is turned to sorrow ; 
This is the wished-for bride, the maid 
Of Egypt, from a rock conveyed 
Where she by shipwreck had been thrown ; 
III sight ! but grief may vanish ere the morrow." 

"Though vast thy power, thy words are weak," 
Exclaimed the king, "a mockery hateful; 
Dutiful child t her lot how hard ! 
Is this her piety's reward ! 
Those watery locks, that bloodless cheek I 
O winds without remorse ! O shore ungrateful ! 

" Rich robes are fretted by the moth ; 
Towers, temples, fall by stroke of thunder; 
Will that, or deeper thoughts, abate 
A father's sorrow for her fate ? 
He will repent him of his troth ; 
His brain will burn, his stout heart split asunder* 



THE ROMANCE OF THE WATER LILY. 57 

" Alas! and I have caused this wo ; 
For, when my prowess from invading neighbors 
Had freed his reahn, he plighted word 
That he would turn to Christ our Lord, 
And his dear daughter on a knight bestow 
Whom I should choose for love and matchless 
labors. 

"Her birth was heathen, but a fence 
Of holy angels round her hovered; 
A lady added to my court 
So fair, of such divine report 
And worship, seemed a recompence 
For fifty kingdoms by my sword recovered. 

"Ask not for whom, O champions true! 
She was reserved by me her life's betrayer ; 
She who was meant to be a bridfe 
Is now a corse ; then put aside 
Vain thoughts and speed ye, with observance due 
Of Christian rites, in Christian ground to lay her." 

"The tomb," said Merlin, "may not close 
Upon her yet, earth hide her beauty ; 
Not froward to thy sovereign will 
Esteem me, liege! if I, whose skill 
Wafted her hither, interpose 
To check this pious haste of erring duty. 

'' My books command me to lay bare 

The secret thou art bent on keeping ; 

Here must a high attest be given, 

JFhat bridegroom was for her ordained by 

heaven : 
And in my glass significants there are 
Of things that may to gladness turn this weeping. 



58 THE EGYPTIAN MAID ; OR, 

" For this, approaching one by one, 

'Uiy knights must touch the cold hand of the 

virgin ; 
So, for the favored one, the flower may bloom 
Once more ; but, if unchangeable her doom, 
If life departed be forever gone 
Some blest assurance, from this cloud emerging, 

May teach him to bewail his loss; 
Not with a grief that, like a vapor, rises 
And melts ; but grief devout that shall endure 
And a perpetual growth secure 
Of pui'poses which no false thought shall cross, 
A harvest of high hopes and noble enterprises." 

"So be it," said the king; — "anon, 
Here, v^'here the princess lies, begin the trial : 
Knights each in order as ye stand 
Step forth." — To touch the pallid hand 
Sir Agravaine advanced ; no sign he won 
From heaven or earth ; — Sir Kaye had like denial. 

Abashed, Sir Dinas turned away ; 
Even for Sir Percival was no disclosure ; 
Though he, devoutest of all champions, ere 
He reached that ebon car, the bier 
Whereon diffused like snow the damsel laj'. 
Full thri:;e hadcro ssedhimself in meek composure. 

Imagine (but, ye saints ! wlio can ?) 
How ir\ still air the balance trembled ; 
The wishes, peradventure the despites 
That overcome some not ungenei'ous knights ; 
And all the thoughts that lengthen out a span 
Of time to lords and ladies thus assembled. 



THE ROMANCE OF THE WATER LILY. O^ 

Wliiit patient confidence was liere ! 

And there how many liosoras panted ! 

While drawing toward the car, Sir Gawaiue, 

mailed 
For tournament, his beaver vailed, 
And softly touched ; but, to his princely cheer 
And high expectancy, no sign was granted. 

Next, disencumbered of his harp. 
Sir Tristram, dear to thousands as a bi-other, 
Came to the proof, nor grieved that there ensued 
No change ; — the fair Izonda he had wooed 
With love too true, a love with pangs too sharp, 
From hope too distant, not to dread another. 

Not so Sir Launcelot ; — from heaven's grace 
A sign he craved, tired slave of vain conti'ition ; 
The royal Guinever looked passing glad 
When his touch failed. Next came Sir Galahad ; 
He paused, and stood entranced by that still face 
Whose features he had seen in noontide vision. 

For late, as near a murmuring stream 
He i-ested 'mid an arbor green and shady, 
Nina, the good enchantress, shed 
A light around his mossy bed ; 
And at her call, a waking dream 
Prefigured to his sense the Egyptian Lady. 

Now, while his bright-haired front he bowed, 
And stood, far-kenned by mantle fuiTed witis 

ermine. 
As o'er the insensate body hung 
The enrapt, the beautiful, the young, 
Belief sank deep into the crowd 
That he the solemn issue would determine. 



CO THE EGYPTIAN MAID ; OR, 

Nor deem it strange ; the youth had won 
That very mantle on a day of glory, 
The day when he acheived that matchless feat, 
The marvel of the Perilous Seat, 
Which whosoe'er approached of strength was 
shorn, 
Though king or knight the most renowned in story. 

He touched with hesitating hand, 

And lo ! those birds, far-famed through Love's 

dominions, 
The swans, in triumph clap their wings ; 
And their necks play involved in rings. 
Like sinless snakes in Eden's happy land ; — 
" Mine is she," cried the Knight ; — again they 

clapped their pinions. 

" Mine was she — mine she is, though dead. 
And to her name my soul shall cleave in sor- 
row ; " 
Whereat, a tender twilight streak 
Of color dawned upon the damsel's cheek; 
And her lips, quickening with uncertain red, 
Seemed from each other a faint warmth to borrow. 

Deep was the awe, the rapture high. 
Of love emboldened, hope with dread entwin- 
ing. 
When, to the mouth, relenting death 
Allowed a soft and flower-like breath. 
Precursor to a timid sigh, 
To lifted eyelids, and a doubtful shining. 

Jn silence did King Arthur gaze 

Upon the signs that pass away or tarry ; 



THE ROMANCE OF THE WATER LILLY. 61 

Jn silence watched the gentle strife 
Of Nature leading back to life ; 
Then eased his soul at length by praise 
Of God, and Heaven's pure Queen — the blissful 
Mary. 

Then said he, " Take her to thy heart 
Sir Galahad ! a treasure that God giveth. 
Bound by indissoluble ties to thee 
Through mortal change and immortality : 
Be happy and unenvied, thou who art 
A goodly Knight that hath no peer that liveth ! " 

Not long the nuptials were delayed ; 
And sage tradition still rehearses 
The pomp, the glory of that hour 
When toward tiie altar from her bower 
King Arthur led the Egyptian Maid, 

And Angels carolled these far-echoed verses ; — 

Who shrinks not from alliance 
Of evil with good Powers, 
To God proclaim defiance, 
And mocks whom he adores. 

A ship to Christ devoted, 
From the land of Nile did go ; 
Alas ! the bright ship floated, 
An idol at her prow. 

By magic domination. 
The Heaven-permitted vent 
Of purblind mortal passion. 
Was wrought her punishment. 



♦jt2 THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 

The flower, the form within it, 
What served they in liernced ? 
Her port she could not win it. 
Nor from raislia]) be freed. 

The tempest overcame her, 
And she was seen no more ; 
But gently, gently blame her. 
She cast a pearl ashore. 

The Maid to Jesii liearkened, 
And kept to him her faith. 
Till sense in death was darkened, 
Or sleep akin to death. 

But angels round her pillow 
Kept watch a viewless band ; 
And, billow favoring billow, 
She reached the destined strand. 

Blest pair ! whate'er befall you. 
Your faith in Him approve 
Who from frail earth can call you, 
To bowers of endless love ! 



63 



ODE, 

COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING. 



While from the purpling east departs 

The star that led the dawn, 
Blithe Flora from her couch upstaits, 

For May is on the lawn. 
A quickening hope, a freshening glee, 

Foreran the expected power. 
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree, 

Shakes off that pearly shower. 

All Nature welcomes her whose sway 

Tempers the year's extremes ; 
Who scattereth lustres o'er noon day, 

Like morning's dewy gleams ; 
While mellow warble, sprightly trill. 

The tremulous heart excite ; 
And hums the balmy air to still 

The balance of delight. 

Time was, blest power ! when youths and maids 

At peep of dawn would rise. 
And wander forth, in forest glades 

Thy birth to solemnize. 
Though mute the song — to grace the rite 

Untouched the hawthorn bough. 
Thy spirit triumphs e'er the slight ; 

Man changes, but not thou ! 

Tliy feathered lieges bill and wings 

In love's disport employ, 
Warmed by thy influence, creeping things 

Awake to silent joy : 



64 



MAY MORNIWG. 



Queen art thou still for each gay plant 
Where the slim wild deer i-oves ; 

And served in depths where fishes haunt 
Their own mysterious groves. 

Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath, 

Instinctive homage pay ; 
Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath 

To honor thee, sweet May ! 
Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs 

Behold a smokeless sky, 
Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares 

To open a bright eye. 

And if, on this thy natal morn. 

The pole, from which thy name 
Hath not departed, stands forlorn 

Of song and dance and game, 
Still from the village-green a vow 

Aspires to thee addrest, 
W^herever peace is on the brow. 

Or love within the breast. 

Yes ! where love nestles thou canst teach 

The soul to love the more ; 
Hearts also shall thy lessons reach 

That never loved before. 
Stript is the haughty one of pride, 

The bashful freed from fear, 
While rising, like the ocean-tide. 

In flows the joyous year. 

Hush, feeble lyre ! weak words, refuse 
The service to prolong ! 



65 



To yon exulting thrush the Muse 
Intrusts the imperfect song ; 

His voice shall chant, in accents clear. 
Throughout the live-long day, 

Till the first silver star appear. 
The sovereignty of May. 



TO MAY. 



Though many suns have risen and set 

Since thou, blithe May, wert born, 
And bards, who hailed thee, may forget 

Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn ; 
There are who to a birthday strain 

Confine not harp and voice, 
But evermore throughout thy reign 

Are grateful and rejoice ! 

Delicious odors ! music sweet. 

Too sweet to pass away I 
Oh for a deathless song to meet 

The soul's desire — a lay 
That, when a thousand years are told, 

Should praise thee, genial power ! 
Through summer heat, autumnal cold, 

And winter's dreariest hour. 

Earth, sea, thy presence feel — nor less, 

If yon ethereal blue 
With its soft smile the truth express, 

The heavens have felt it too. 
5 



66 TO MAT. 

The inmost heart of man if glad 

Partakes a livelier cheer ; 
And eyes that cannot but be sad 

Let fall a brightened tear. 

Since thy return, through days and weeks 

Of hope that grew by stealth, 
How many wan and faded cheeks 

Have kindled into health ! 
The old, by thee revived, have said, 

" Another year is ours ;" 
And wayworn wanderers, pooi-ly fed, 

Have smiled upon thy flowers. 

Who tripping lisps a merry song 

Amid his playful peers ? 
The tender infant who was long 

A prisoner of fond fears ; 
But now, when every sharp-edged blast 

Is quiet in its sheath, 
His mother leaves him free to taste 

Earth's sweetness in thy breath. 

Thy help is with the weed that creeps 

Along the humblest ground ; 
No cliff so bare but on its steeps 

Thy favors may be found ; 
But most on some peculiar nook 

That our own hands have drest. 
Thou and thy train are proud to look. 

And seem to love it best. 

And yet how pleased we wander forth 
When May is whispering, " Come ! 

Choose from the bowers of virgin eartb 
The happiest for your home ; 



67 



Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread 
From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, 

Drops on the mouldering turret's head. 
And on our turf-clad graves I" 

Such greeting heard, away with sighs 

For lilies that must fade, 
Or " the rathe primrose as it dies 

Forsaken" in the shade ! 
Vernal fruitions and desires 

Are linked in endless chase ; 
While, as one kindly growth retires, 

Another takes its place. 

And what if thou, sweet May, has knowo 

Mishap by worm and blight ; 
If expectations newly blown 

Have perished in thy sight; 
If loves and joys, while up they sprung. 

Were caught as in a snare ; 
Such is the lot of all the young, 

However bright and fair. 

Lo ! Streams that April could not cheek 

Are patient of thy rule ; 
Gurgling in foamy water-break. 

Loitering in glassy pool : 
By thee, thee only, could be sent 

Such gentle mists as glide, 
Curling with unconfii'med intent, 

On that green mountain's side. 

How delicate the leafy veil 

Through which yon house of God 

Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale 
By few but shepherds trod ! 



69 INSCRIPTION. 

And lowly huts, n&ar beaten ways, 

No sooner stand attired 
In thy fresh wi-eaths, than they for praiat. 

Peep forth and are admired. 

Season of fancy and of liope, 

Permit not for one hour 
A blossom from thy crown to drop, 

Nor add to it a flower ! 
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch 

Of self-restraining art, 
This modest charm of not too much, 

Part seen, imagined part! 



INSCRIPTION. 

The massy ways, carried across these heights 

By Roman perseverance, are destroyed. 

Or hidden under ground, like sleeping worms. 

How venture then to hope that time will spare 

This humble walk? Yet on the mountain's sidc- 

A poet's hand first shaped it ; and the steps 

Of that same bard, repeated to and fro 

At morn, at noon, and under moonlight skies, 

Through the vicissitudes of many a year. 

Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its gray line. 

No longer, scattering to the heedless winds 

The vocal raptures of fresh poesy. 

Shall he frequent these precincts ; locked no more 

In earnest converse with beloved friends. 

Here will he gather stores of ready bliss, 



ELEGIAC MUSINGS. 69 

As from the beds and borders of a garden 
Choice flowei-s are gathered ! But, if power may 

spring 
Out of a farewell yearning favored more 
Than kindred wishes mated suitably 
With vain regrets, the exile would consign 
This walk, his loved possession, to the care 
Of those pure minds that reverence the muse. 



ELEGIAC MUSINGS. 

IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON HALL, THE SEAT OF THB 
LATE SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART. 

[In these grounds stands the Parish Church, wherein is a 
mural monument, the Inscription upon which, in deference to 
the earnest request of the deceased, is confined to name, 
dates, and these words : — " Enter not into judgment with 
thy servant, O Lord !"] 

With copious eulogy in prose and rhyme 

Graven on the tomb we struggle against time, 

Alas, how feebly ! but our feelings rise 

And still we struggle when a good man dies : 

Such offering Beaumont dreaded and forbade, 

A spirit meek in self-abasement clad. 

Yet here at least, though few have numbered days 

That shunned so modestly the light of praise, 

His graceful manners, and the temperate ray 

Of that arch fancy which would round him play, 

Brightening a converse never known to swerve 

From courtesy and delicate resei-ve ; 



70 ELEGIAC MUSINGS. 

Tliat sense — the bland philosophy of life 
Which checked discussion ere it warmed to strife ; 
Tliose fine accomplishments, and varied powers, 
Might have their record among sylvan bowers. 
— Oh, fled forever ! vanished like a blast 
That shook the leaves in myriads as it passed ; 
Gone from this world of earth, air, sea, and skj-, 
From all its spirit-moving imagery, 
Intensely studied with a painter's eye, 
A poet's heart ; and, for congenial view, 
Portrayed with happiest pencil, not untrue 
To common recognitions while the line 
Flowed in a course of sympathy divine — 
Oh ! severed too abruptly from delights 
That all the seasons shared with equal rights — 
Kapt in the grace of undismantled age. 
From soul-felt music, and the treasured page, 
Lit by that evening lamp which loved to shed 
Its mellow lustre round thy honored head. 
While friends beheld thee give with eye, voice, 

mien. 
More than theatric force to Shakspeare's scene — 
Rebuke us not 1 — The mandate is obeyed 
That said, " Let praise be mute where I am laid ;" 
The holier deprecation, given in trust 
To the cold marble, waits upon thy dust ; 
Yet have we found how slowly genuine grief 
From silent admiration wins relief. 
Too long abashed thy name is like a rose 
That doth " within itself its sweetness close ;" 
A drooping daisy changed into a cup 
In Avhich her bright-eyed beauty is shut up. 
Within these groves, where still are flitting by 
Shades of the past, oft noticed with a sigh, 



71 



Shall stand a votive tablet, haply free, 
When towers and temples fall, to speak of thee ! 
If sculptured emblems of our mortal doom 
Recall not there the wisdom of the tomb. 
Green ivy, risen from out the cheerful earth. 
Shall fringe the lettered stone ; and herbs spring 

forth, 
Whose fragrance, by soft dews and rain unbound, 
Shall penetrate the heart without a wound ; 
While truth and love their purposes fulfil. 
Commemorating genius, talent, skill, 
That could not lie concealed where thou wert 

known ; 
Thy virtues He must judge, and He alone, 
The God upon whose mercy they are thrown. 



EPITAPH. 



Bt a blest husband guided, Mary came 
From nearest kindred, ****** her new name ; 
She came, though meek of soul, in seemly pride 
Of happiness and hope, a youthful bride. 
O dread reverse ! if aught he so, which proves 
That God will chasten whom he dearly loves. 
Faith bore her up through pains in mercy given. 
And troubles that were each a step to heaven : 
Two babes were laid in earth before she died ; 
A third now slumbers at the mother's side ; 
Its sister-twin survives, whose smiles afford 
A trembling solace to her widowed lord. 



72 INSCRIPTION. 

Reader ! if to thy bosom cling the pain 
Of recent sorrow combated in vain ; 
Or if thy cherished grief have failed to thwart 
Time still intent on his insidious part, 
Lulling the mourner's best good thoughts asleep, 
Pilfering regrets we would, but cannot, keep; 
Bear with him — judge him gently who makes 

known 
His bitter loss by this memorial stone ; 
And pray that in his faithful breast the grace 
Of resignation find a hallowed place. 



INSCRIPTION. 

INTENDED FOR A STONE IN THE GROUNDS OF RYDAL MOUNl 

In these fair vales hath many a tree 

At Wordsworth's suit been spared ; 
And from the builder's hand this stone, 
For rome rude beauty of its own. 

Was rescued by the bard : 
To let it rest, — and time will come 

When here the tender-hearted 
May heave a gentle sigh for him, 

As one of the departed. 



73 



INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 

In Bruges town is many a street 

Whence busy life hath fled ; 
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet, 

The grass-grown pavement tread. 
There heard we, halting in the shade 

Flung from a convent-towei-, 
A hai-p that tuneful prelude made 

To a voice of thrilling power. 

The measure, simple truth to tell,, 

Was fit for some gay throng ; 
Though from the same grim turret fell 

The shadow and the song. 
When silent were both voice and chords 

The strain seemed doubly dear, 
Yet sad as sweet, for English words 

Had fallen upon the ear. 

It was a breezy hour of eve ; 

And pinnacle and spire 
Quivered and seemed almost to heave, 

Clothed with innocuous fire ; 
But where we stood, the setting sun 

Showed little of his state ; 
And, if the glory reached the Nun^ 

'Twas through an iron grate. 

Not always is the heart unwise. 

Nor pity idly born, 
If even a parting stranger sighs 

For them who do not mourn. 



74 A JEWISH FAMILT. 

Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, 
Captive, whoe'ei- thou be ! 

Oh ! what is beauty, what is love, 
And opening life to thee ? 

Such feeling pressed upon my soul, 

A feeling sanctified 
By one soft trickling tear that stole 

From the maiden at my side ; 
Less tribute could she pay than this, 

Borne gaily o'er the sea, 
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 

Of English liberty ? 



A JEWISH FAMILY. 

(in a small valley opposite ST. GOAR, UPON THE RHINE.) 

Genius of Raphael ! if thy wings 

Might bear thee to this glen, 
With faithful memory left of things 

To pencil dear and pen. 
Thou wouldst forego the neighboring Rhine, 

And all his majesty, 
A studious forehead to incline 

O'er this poor family. 

The mother — her thou must have seen. 

In spirit, ere she came 
To dwell these rifted rocks between. 

Or found on earth a name ; 



A JEWISH FAMILY. 75 

An image, too, of that sweet boy, 

Thy inspirations give : 
Of playfulness, and love, and joy, 

Predestined here to live. 

Dovs'ncast, or shooting glances far, 

How beautiful his eyes, 
That blend the nature of the star 

With that of summer skies ! 
I speak as if of sense beguiled ; 

Uncounted months ai'e gone. 
Yet am I with the Jewish child, 

That exquisite Saint John. 

I see the dark brown curls, the brow, 

The smooth transparent skin, 
Refined, as with intent to show 

The holiness within ; 
The grace of parting infancy 

By blushes yet untamed ; 
Age faithful to the mother's knee. 

Nor of her arms ashamed. 

Two lovely sisters, still and sweet 

As flowers, stand side by side ; 
Their soul-subduing looks might cheat 

The Christian of his pride : 
Such beauty hath the Eternal poured 

Upon ihem not forlorn. 
Though of a lineage once abhorred, 

Nor yet redeemed from scorn. 

Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite 

Of poverty and wrong. 
Doth here preserve a living light, 

From Hebrew fountains sprung ; 



DEVOTIONAL I^'CITEMENTS. 



That gives this ragged group to cast 

Around the dell a gleam 
Of Palestine, of glory past, 

And proud Jerusalem ! 



DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 

" Not to the earth confined, 
Ascend to heaven." 

Where will they stop, those breathing powers, 

The spirits of the new-born flowers ? 

They wander with the bi-eeze, they wind 

Where'er the streams a passage find ; 

Up from their native ground they rise 

In mute aerial harmonies ; 

From humble violet, modest thyme 

Exhaled, the essential odors climb. 

As if no space below the sky 

Their subtile flight could satisfy : 

Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride 

If like ambition be their guide. 

Roused by this kindliest of May-showers, 
The spirit-quickener of the flowers, 
That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
The buds, and freshens the young leaves. 
The birds pour forth their souls in notes 
Of rapture from a thousand throats, 
Here checked by too impetuous haste, 
While there the music runs to waste, 



DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 

With bounty more and more enlarged, 
Till the whole air is overcharged 
Give ear, O man ! to their appeal 
And thirst for no inferior zeal. 
Thou, who canst think, as well as feel. 

Mount from the earth ; aspire ! aspire! 
So pleads the town's cathedral choir, 
In strains that from their solemn height 
Sink, to attain a loftier flight ; 
While incense from the altar breathes 
Rich fi-agrance in embodied wreaths ; 
Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds 
The taper lights, and curls in clouds 
Around angelic forms, the still 
Creation of the painter's skill. 
That on the service wait concealed 
One moment, and the next revealed. 
— Cast off" your bonds, awake, arise, 
And for no transient ecstasies ! 
What else can mean the visual plea 
Of still or moving imagery ? 
The iterated summons loud, 
Not wasted on the attendant crowd, 
Nor wholly lost upon the throng- 
Hurrying the busy streets along ? 

Alas ! the sanctities combined 
By art to unsensualize the mind, 
Decay and languish ; or, as creeds 
And humors change, are spurned like weeds 
The solemn rites, the awful forms. 
Founder amid fanatic storms ; 
The priests are from their altars thrust, 
The temples levelled with the dust : 



78 DEVOTIO.NAL INCITEMENTS. 

Yet evermore, througli years renewed 

fn undisturbed vicissitude 

Of seasons balancing their flight 

On the swift wings of day and night, 

Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 

Wide open for the scattered poor. 

Where flower-breathed incense to the skies 

Is wafted in mute harmonies ; 

-•Vnd ground fresh cloven by the plough 

Ts fragrant with a humbler vow ; 

Where birds and brooks froin leafy dells 

Chime forth unwearied canticles, 

And vapors magnify and spread 

The glory of the sun's bright head ; 

Still constant in her worship, still 

Conforming to the almighty Will, 

Whether men sow or reap the fields, 

Her admonitions Nature yields ; 

That not by bread alone we live, 

Or what a hand of flesh can give ; 

That every day should leave some part 

Free for a sabbath of the heart ; 

So shall the seventh be truly blest. 

From morn to eve, with hallowed rest. 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

Small service is true service while it lasts ; 

Of friends, however humble, scorn not one : 
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, 

Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun. 



79 



THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 

[The subject of the following poem is from the Orlandus of 
the author's friend, Kenelm Henry Digby ; and the liberty is 
taken of inscribing it to him as an acknowledgement, how- 
ever unworthy, of pleasure and instruction derived from his 
numerous and valuable writings, illustrative of the piety and 
chivalry of the olden time.] 

You have heard " a Spanish Lady 
How she wooed au English Man ; " * 
Hear now of a fair Armenian, 
Daughter of the proud Soldan ; 
How she loved a Christian slave, and told her pain 
By word, look, deed, with hope that he might love 
again. 

" Pluck that rose, it moves my liking," 

Said she, lifting up her veil ; 
«' Pluck it for me, gentle gardener. 
Ere it wither and grow pale." 
"' Princess fair, I till the ground, but may not take 
From twig or bed au humbler flower, even for 
your sake." 

"Grieved am I, submissive Christian^ 
To behold thy captive state ; 
Women, in your land, may pity 
(May they not ?) the unfortunate." 
" Yes, kind lady ! otherwise man could not bear 
Life, which to every one that breathes is full of care." 

* See, in Percy's Reliques, that fine old ballad, " The Spa- 
nish Lady's Love ; " from which Poem the form of stanza, as 
suitable to dialogue, is adopted. 



80 THE ARMENIAN LADV's LOVE. 

"Worse than idle is compassion 
If it end in tears and sighs ; 
Thee from bondage would I rescue 
And from vile indignities ; 
Nurtured, as thy mien bespeaks, in high degree, 
Look up — and help a hand that longs to set thee 
free." 

*' Lad3'^, dread the wish, nor venture 
In such peril to engage ; 
Think how it would stir against you 
Your most loving father's rage : 
Sad deliverance Avould it l)e, and yoked with shame, 
Should troubles overflow on her from whom it 
came." 

" Generous Frank ! the just in effort 
Are of inward peace secure ; 
Hardships for the brave encountered, 
Even the feeblest may endure : 
If Almighty Grace through me thy chains unbind 
My father for slave's work may seek a elave in 
mind." 

" Princess, at this burst of goodness, 

My long-frozen heart grows warm! " 
" Yet you make all courage fruitless, 
Me to save from chance of harm : 
Leading such companion I that gilded dome. 
Yon minarets, would gladly leave for his worst 
home." 

" Feeling tunes your voice, fair Prhicess ! 
And your brow is free from scorn. 
Else these words would come like mockery, 
Sharper than the pointed thorn." 



THE ARMENIAN X,ADY's LOVE, 81 

" Whence the undeserved mistrust? Too wide 

apart 
Our faith hath been, — O would that eyes could 

see the heart ! " 

" Tempt me not, I pray ; my doom is 
These base implements to wield ; 
Rusty lance, I ne'er shall grasp thee, 
Ne'er assoil my cobwebb'd shield ! 
Never see my native land, nor castle towers, 
Nor her who thinking of me there counts widow- 
ed hours." 

" Prisoner ! pardon youthful fancies ; 

Wedded ! If you can, say no ! — 

Blessed is and be your consort ; 

Hopes T cherished let them go ! 
Handmaid's privilege would leave my purpose free, 
Without another link to my felicity." 

" Wedded love with loyal Christians, 

Lady, is a mystery rare ; 

Body, heart, and soul in union, 

Make one being of a pair." 
"Humble love in me would look for no return, 
Soft as a guiding star that cheers, but cannot burn." 

" Gracious Allah ! by such title 
Do I dare to thank the God, 
Him who thus exalts thy spirit, 
Flower of an unchristian sod ! 
Or hast thou put off wings which thou in heaven 

dost wear ? 
What have I seen, and heard, or dreamt ? where 
am I ? where .'" 
6 



82 THE ARMENIAN LADT's LOVE. 

Here broke off the dangerous converse : 
Less impassioned words might lell 
How the pair escaped together, 
Te.irs not wanting, nor a knell 
Of sori'ow in her heart while through her father's 

door, 
And from her narrow world, she passed for ever- 
more. 

But affections higher, holier, 
Urged her steps ; she shrank from trust 
In a sensual creed that trampled 
Woman's birthright into dust. 
Little be the wonder then, the blame be none, 
If she, a timid maid, hath put such boldness on. 

Judge both fugitives with knowledge : 

In those old romantic days 

Mighty were the soul's commandments 

To support, restrain, or raise. 
Foesmight hang upon their path, snakes rustle near, 
But nothing from their inward selves had they to 
fear. 

Thought infirm ne'er came between them, 
Whether printing desert sands 
With accordant steps, or gathering 
Forest-fruit with social hands ; 
Or whispering like two reeds that in the cohi 

moonbeam 
Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a crystaJ 
stream. 

On a friendly deck reposing 
They at length for Venice steer ; 



TliE ARMENIAN I-ADY's LOVE. 83 

There, when they have closed their voyage, 

One, who daily on the pier 
Watched for tidings from the east, beheld his lord. 
Fell down and clasped his knees for joy, not utter- 
ing word. 

Mutual was the sudden transport ; 
Breathless questions followed fast, 
Years contracting to a moment, 
Each word greedier than the last ^ 
'' Hie thee to the countess, friend ! return with 

speed, 
And of this stranger speak by whom her lord was 
freed; 

"Say that I, who might have languished, 
Drooped and pined till life was spent, 
Now before the gates of Stolberg 
My deliverer would present 
For a crowning recompense, the precious grace 
Of her who in my heart still holds her ancient 
place. 

"Make it known that my companion 

Is of royal Eastern blood. 

Thirsting after all perfection, 

Innocent, and meek, and good. 
Though with misbelievers bred ; but that dark night 
Will Holy Church disperse l)y beams of Gospel 
light." 

Swiftly went the gray-haired servant, 
Soon returned a trusty page 
Charged with greeting, benedictions, 
Thanks and praises, each a gage 



84 THE ARMENIAN LADY's LOVE. 

For a sunny thought to cheer the stranger's way 
Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fears allay. 

Fancy (while, to banners floating 

High on Stolberg's Castle walls, 

Deafening noise of welcome mounted, 

Trumpets, drums, and atabols,j 
The devout embraces still, while such tears fell 
As made a meeting seem most like a dear farewell. 

Through a haze of human nature, 

Glorified by heavenly light, 

Looked the beautiful deliverer 

On that overpowering sight. 
While across her virgin cheek pure blushes strayed 
For every tender sacrifice her heart had made. 

On the ground the weeping countess 

Knelt, and kissed the stranger's hand ; 

Act of soul-devoted homage, 

Pledge of an eternal band : 
Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie, 
Which with a generous shout, the crowd did ratify. 

Constant to the fair Armenian, 

Gentle pleasures round her moved. 

Like a tutelary spirit 

Reverenced, like a sister, loved. 
Christian meekness smoothed for all the path of life, 
AVho, loving most, should wisclist love, their only 
strife. 

Mute memento of that union 
In a Saxon church survives, 



THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 85 

Where a cross-legged knight lies sculptured 
As between two wedded wives — 
Figures with armorial signs of race and birth, 
And the vain rank the pilgrims bore while yet on 
earth. 



THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 

A ROCK there is whose homely front 

The passing traveller slights ; 
Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps 

Like stars, at various heights ; 
And one coy primrose to that rock 

The vernal breeze invites. 

What hideous warfare hath been waged, 

What kingdoms overthrown, 
Since first I spied that primrose-tuft 

And marked it for my own ; 
A lasting link in natui-e's chain 

From highest heaven let down ! 

The flowers, still faithful to the stems, 

Their fellowship renew ; 
The stems are faithful to the root. 

That woi-keth out of view ; 
And to the rock the root adheres 

In every fibre true. 

Close clings to earth the living rock, 
Though threatening still to fall ; 



> THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 

The earth is constant to her sphere ; 

And God upholds them all : 
So blooms this lonely plant, nor dreads 

Her annual funeral. 



Here closed the meditative strain ; 

But air breathed soft that day, 
The hoary mountain-heights were cheered. 

The sunny vale lookjd gay; 
And to the primrose of the rock 

I gave this after-lay. 

I sang, let myriads of bright flowers,. 

Like thee, in field and grove 
Revive unenvied — mightier far 

Than tremblings that reprove 
Our vernal tendencies to hope 

Is God's redeeming love : 

That love which changed, for wan disease. 

For sorrow that had bent 
O'er hopeless dust, for withered age, 

Their moral element. 
And turned the thistles of a curse 

To types beneficent. 

Sin-blighted though we are, we too* 

The reasoning sons of men, 
From one oblivious winter called 

Shall rise, and breathe again ; 
And in eternal summer lose 

Our threescore years and ten. 



PRESENTIMENTS. 87 

To humbleness of heart descends 

This prescience from on high, 
The faith that elevates the just, 

Before and when they die ; 
And makes each soul a separate heaven, 

A court for Deity. 



PRESENTIMENTS. 

Presentiments! they judge not right 
Who deem that ye from open light 

Retire in fear of shame ; 
All heaven-born instincts shun the touch 
Of vulgar sense, and, being such, 

Such privilege ye claim. 

The tear whose source I could not guess, 
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless, 

Were mine in early days ; 
And now, unforced by time to part 
With fancy, I obey my heart. 

And venture on your praise. 

What though some busy foes to good. 
Too potent over nerve and blood. 

Lurk near you, and combine 
To taint the health which ye infuse. 
This hides not from the moral muse 

Your origin divine. 

How oft from you, derided powers! 
Comes faith that in auspicious hours 
Builds castles, not of air; 



00 PRESENTIMENTS. 

Bodings unsanctioned by the will 
Flow from your visionary skill, 
And teach us to beware. 

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, 
That no philosophy can lift, 

Shall vanish, if ye please. 
Like morning mist ; and, where it lay, 
The spirits at your bidding play 

In gaiety and ease. 

Star-guided contemplations move 

Through space, though calm, not raised above 

Prognostics that ye rule ; 
The naked Indian of the wild. 
And haply, too, the cradled child, 

Are pupils of your school. 

But who can fathom your intents, 
Number their signs or instruments? 

A rainbow, a simbeam, 
A subtile smell that spring unbinds, 
Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds. 

An echo, or a dream. 

The laughter of the Christmas hearth 
With sighs of self-exhausted mirth 

Ye feelingly reprove; 
And daily, in the conscious breast, 
Your visitations are a test 

And exercise of love. 

When some great change gives boundless scope 
To an exulting nation's hope. 
Oft, startled and made wise 



PRESENTIMENTS. 

By your low-breathed interpretings, 
The simply-meek foretaste the springs 
Of bitter contraries. 

Ye daunt the proud array of war, 
Pervade the lonely ocean far 

As sail hath been unfurled ; 
For dancers in the festive hall 
What ghastly partners hath your call 

Fetched from the shadowy world ! 

'T is said, that warnings ye dispense, 
Embolden by a keener sense ; 

That men have lived for whom, 
With dread precision, ye made clear 
The hour that in a distant year 

Should knell them to the tomb. 

Unwelcome insight ! Yet there are 
Blest times when mystery is laid bare. 

Truth shows a glorious face, 
While on that isthmus which commands 
'J he councils of both worlds she stands. 

Sage spirits ! by your grace. 

God, who instructs the brutes to scent 
All changes of the element. 

Whose wisdom fixed the scale 
Of natures, for our wants provides 
By higher, sometimes humbler, guides. 

When lights of reason fail. 



90 



THE POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE. 

As often as I murmur here 

My half-formed melodies, 
Straight from lier osier mansion near, 

The turtledove replies: 
Though silent as a leaf before, 

The captive promptly coos ; 
Is it to teach her own soft lore, 

Or second my weak muse ? 

I rather think, the gentle dove 

Is murmuring a reproof. 
Displeased that I from lays of ]ovz 

Have dared to keep aloof; 
That I, a bard of hill and dale. 

Have caroll'd, fancy free, 
As if nor dove, nor nightingale, 

Had heart or voice for me. 

If such thy meaning, O forbear. 

Sweet bird ! to do me wrong ; 
Love, blessed love, is everywhere 

The spirit of riiy song: 
'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside. 

Love animates my lyre ; 
That coo again ! — 't is not to chide, 

I feel, but to inspire. 



91 



Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and the pride 

Of thy domain, strange contrast do present 

To house and home in many a craggy rent 

Of the wild peak ; where new-born waters glide 

Through fields Avhose thrifty occupants abide 

As in a dear and chosen banishment, 

With every semblance of entii-e content ; 

So kind is simple nature, fairly tried ! 

Yet he whose heart in childhood gave her troth 

To pastoral dales, thin set with modest farms, 

May learn, if judgment strengthens with his growth, 

That, not for fancy only, pomp hath charms ; 

And, strenuous to protect from lawless harms 

The extremes of favored life, may honor both. 



Desponding father! mark this altered bough, 

So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed. 

Or moist with dews ; what more unsightly now, 

Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if foi-med, 

Invisible ? yet spring her genial brow 

Knits not o'er that discoloring and decay 

As false to expectation. Nor fret thou 

At like unlovely process in the May 

Of human life ; a stripling's graces blow. 

Fade and are shed, that from their timely fall 

(Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may grow 

Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call ; 

In all men, sinful is it to be slow 

To hope — in parents, sinful above all. 



92 



ROMAN ANTIdUITIES DISCOVERED, 

AT BISHOPSTONE, HEREFORDSHIRE. 

While poring antiquarians search the ground 
Upturned with curious pains, the bard, a seer, . 
Takes fire : — The men that have been reappear ; 
Romans for travel girt, for business gowned, 
And some recline on couches, myrtle-croAvned, 
In festal glee : why not ? For fresh and clear, 
As its hues were of the passing year. 
Dawns this time-buried pavement. Fi-om that 

mound 
Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maximins, 
Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil : 
Or a fierce impress issues witli its foil 
Of tenderness — the wolf, whose suckling twins 
The unlettered ploughboy pities when he wins 
The casual treasure from the furrowed soil. 



ST. CATHERINE OF LEDBURY. 

When human touch, as monkish books attest, 
Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury bells 
Broke foi-th in concert flung adown the dells. 
And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy crest ; 
Sweet tones, and caugiit by a noble lady blest 
To rapture ! Mabel listened at the side 
Of her loved mistress : soon the music died. 
And Catherine said, " Here I set up my rest." 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 93 

Warned in a dream, the wanderer long had sought 

A home that by such miracle of sound 

Must be revealed : — she heard it now, or felt 

The deep, deep joy of a confiding thought ; 

And there, a saintly anchcress she dwelt 

Till she exchanged for heaven that happy ground. 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 

[Peter Henry Bruce, having given in his entertaining Me- 
moirs the substance of the following Tale, affirms, that 
besides the concurring reports of others, he had the story 
from the Lady's own mouth. 

The Lady Catherine, mentioned towards the close, was 
the famous Catherine, then bearing that name as the ac- 
knowledged wife of Peter the Great.] 



Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes 

Like harebells bathed in dew. 
Of cheek that with carnation vies, 

And veins of violet hue ; 
Earth wants not beauty that may scorn 

A likening to frail flowers ; 
Yea, to the stars, if they were born 

For seasons and for hours. 

Through Moscow's gates, with gold unbarred, 

Stepped one at dead of night, 
Whom such high beauty could not guard 

Fi'om meditated blight ; 



94 THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 

By stealth she passed, and fled as fast 

As doth the hunted fawn, 
Nor stopped, till in the dappling east 

Appeared unwelcome dawn. 

Seven days she lurked in brake and Held, 

Seven nights her course renewed, 
Sustained by what her scrip might yield, 

Or berries of tlie wood ; 
At length, in darkness travelling on. 

When lowly doors were shut. 
The haven of her hope she won, 

Her Foster-mother's hut. 

" To put your love to dangerous proof 

I come," said she, " from far ; 
For I have left my father's roof. 

In terror of the Czar." 
No answer did the matron give, 

No second look she cast ; 
She hung upon the fugitive, 

Embracing and embraced. 

She led her lady to a seat 

Beside the glimmering fire. 
Bathed duteously her Avayworn feet. 

Prevented each desire : 
The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed, 

iVnd on that simple bed. 
Where she in childhood had reposed, 

Now rests her weary head. 

When she, whose couch had been the sod, 

Whose curtain pine or thorn, 
Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God, 

Who comforts the forlorn : 



THE KUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 95 

While over her the matron bent 

Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole 
Feeling from limbs with travel spent, 

And trouble from the soul. 

Refreshed, the wanderer rose at morn, 

And soon again was dight 
In those unworthy vestments worn 

Through long and perilous flight ; 
And " O beloved nurse," she said. 

My thanks with silent tears 
Have unto Heaven and you been paid : 

Now listen to my fears ! 

"Have you forgot" — and here she smiled — 

" The babbling flatteries 
You lavished on me when a child 

Disporting round your knees? 
I was your lambkin, and your bird. 

Your star, your gem, your flower ; 
Light words, that were more lightly heard 

In many a cloudless hour ! 

" The blossom you so fondly praised 

Is come to bitter fruit ; 
A mighty one upon me gazed ; 

I spurned his lawless suit, 
And must be hidden from his wrath : 

You, foster-father dear, 
Will guide me in my forward path ; 

I may not tarry here ! 

"I cannot bring to utter wo 
Your proved fidelity." — 



VO THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 

" Dear child, sweet mistress, say not so ! 

For you we both would die." 
" Nay, nay, I come with semblance feigned 

And cheek embrowned by art ; 
Yet, being inwardly unstained, 

With courage will depart." 

" But whither would you, could you, flee ? 

A poor man's counsel take ; 
The Holy Virgin gives to me 

A thought for your dear sake ; 
Rest shielded by our lady's grace ; 

And soon shall you be led 
Forth to a safe abiding-place, 

Where never foot doth tread." 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 



The dwelling of this faithful pair 

In a straggling village stood. 
For one who breathed unquiet air 

A dangerous neighborhood ; 
But wide around lay forest ground 

With thickets rough and blind ; 
And pine-trees made a heavy shade 

Impervious to the wind. 

And there, sequestered from the sight, 
Was spread a treacherous swamp, 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 97 

On which the noonday sun shed light 

As from a lonely lamp ; 
And midway in the unsafe momss, 

A single island rose 
Of firm dry ground, with healthful grass 

Adorned and shady boughs. 

The woodman knew, for such the craft 

This Russian vassal plied, 
That never fowler's gun, nor shaft 

Of archer, there was tried ; 
A sanctuary seemed the spot 

From all intrusion free ; 
And there he planned an artful cot 

For perfect secrecy. 

With earnest pains unchecked by dread 

Of power's far-stretching hand. 
The bold good man his labor sped 

At nature's pure command ; 
Heart-soothed and busy as a wren, 

While, in a hollow nook, 
She moulds her sight-eluding den 

Above a murmuring brook. 

His task accomplished to his mind, 

The twain ere break of day 
Creep forth, and through the forest v/ind 

Their solitary way ; 
Few words they speak, nor dare to slack 

Their pa;ce from mile to mile. 
Till they have crossed the quaking marsh, 

And reached the lonely isle. 
7 



yes THE RUSSIAN .FITGITIVE. 

The sun above the pine-trees showed 

A bright and cheerful face ; 
And lua looked for her abode. 

The promised hiding-place ; 
She sought in vain, the woodman smiled 

No tlireshold could be seen, 
Nor roof, nor window ; all seemed wild 

As it had ever been. 

Advancing, you might guess an hour, 

The front with such nice cai'e 
Is masked, " if house it be or bower," 

But in they entered are ; 
As shaggy as were wall and roof 

With branches intertwined, 
So smooth was all within, air-proof. 

And delicately lined. 

And hearth was there, and maple dish 

And cups in seemly rows. 
And couch — all ready to a wish 

For nurture or repose ; 
And Heaven doth to her virtue grant 

That here she may abide 
In solitude, with every want 

By cautious love supp]ie<l. 

No Queen, before a shouting crowd, 

Led on in bridal state. 
E'er struggled with a heart so proud, 

Entering her palace gate ; 
Rejoiced to bid the world farewell, 

No saintly anchoi-ess 
E'er took possession of her ceil 

With deeper thankfulness. 



THE RtrSSIAN FUGITIVE. 

"Father of all, upon thy care 

And mercy am I thrown ; 
Be thou my safeguard !" — sucii her prayer 

When she was left alone, 
Kneeling amid the wilderness 

When joy had passed away. 
And smiles, fond efforts of distress ^ 

To hide what they betray I 

The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen, 

Diffused through foi'm and face, 
Resolves devotedly serene, 

That monumental grace 
Of faith which doth all passions tame 

That reason should control. 
And shows in the untrembling frame 

A statue of the soul. 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 



T IS sung in ancient minstrelsy 

That Phoebus wont to wear 
'' The leaves of any pleasant tree 

Around his golden hair,"* 
Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit 

Of his imperious love, 
At her own prayer transformed, took root, 

A laurel in the grove. 

*Froin Golding's Translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses-. 
See also his Dedicatory Epistle prefixed to the same work. 



100 THE RUSSI.4W FUGITIVE. 

Then did the penitent adorn 

His brow with laurel green ; 
And 'mid his bright locks never shorn 

No meaner leaf was seen ; 
And poets sage, through every age, 

About their temples wound 
The bay ; and conquerors thanked the Gods^ 

With laurel chaplets crowned. 

Into the mists of fabling time 

So far runs back the praise 
Of beauty, that disdains to climb 

Along forbidden ways ; 
That scorns temptation ; power defies 

Where mutual love is not ; 
And to the tomb for rescue flies 

When life would be a blot. 

To this fair votaress, a fate 

More mild doth Heaven ordain 
Upon her island desolate ; 

And words, not breathed in vain, 
Might tell what intercourse she found, 

Her silence to endear ; 
What birds she tamed, what flowers the ground 

Sent forth her peace to cheer. 

To one mute presence, above all, 

Her soothed affections clung, 
A picture on the cabin wall 

By Russian usage hung — 
The Mother-maid whose countenance bright 

With love abridged the day ; 
And, communed with by taper light, 

Chased spectral fears away. 



THE RUSSIA*! FITGITIVE. 101 

And oft, as either guardian came, 

The joy in that retreat 
Might any common friendship shame, 

So high their hearts would beat ; 
And to the lone recluse, whate'er 

They brought, each visiting 
Was like the crowding of the year 

With a new burst of spring. 

But, when she of her parents thought, 

The pang was hard to bear ; 
And, if with all things not enwrought, 

That trouble still is near. 
Before her flight she had not dared 

Their constancy to prove. 
Too much the heroic daughter feared 

The weakness of their love. 

Dark is the past to them, and dark 

The future still must be, 
Till pitying Saints conduct her bark 

Into a safer sea — 
Or gentle nature close her eyes. 

And set her spirit free 
From the altar of this sacrifice, 

In vestal purity. 

Yet, whsn above the forest-glooms 

The white swans southward passed, 
High as the pitch of their swift plumes 

Her fancy rode the blast ; 
And bore her tow'rd the fields of France, 

Her father's native land. 
To mingle in the rustic dance. 

The happiest of the band ! 



IDS' THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 

Of those beloved fields she oft 

Had heard her father tell 
In phi-ase that now with echoes soft 

Haunted her lonely cell ; 
She saw the hereditary bowers, 

She heard the ancestral stream ; 
The Kremlin and its haughtj'' towers 

Forgotten like a dream ! 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE, 



The ever-changing moon had traced 

Twelve times her monthly round, 
When thi-ougl) the unfrequented waste 

Was iieard a startling sound ; 
A shout thrice sent from one who chased 

At speed a wounded deer. 
Bounding through bx'anches interlaced, 

And where the wood was clear. 

The fainting creature took the marsh. 

And toward the island fled, 
While plovers screamed with tumult harsh 

Above his antlered head ; 
This, Ina saw ; and, pale with fear, 

Shrunk to her citadel ; 
The desperate deer rushed on, and near 

The tangled covert fell. 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 103 

Across the marsh, the game in view, 

The hunter foUovs^ed fast, 
Nor paused, till o'er the stag he blew 

A death-proclaiming blast 5 
Then resting on her upright mind, 

Came forth the maid — " In me 
Behold," she said, " a stricken hind 

Pursued by destiny! 

^' From your deportment, sir ! I deem 

That you have worn a sword, 
And will not hold in light esteem 

A suffering woman^s word ; 
There is my covert, there perchance 

I might have lain concealed. 
My fortunes hid, my countenance 

Not even to you revealed. 

" Tears might be shed, and I might prayj 

Crouching and terrified. 
That what has been unveiled today. 

You would in mystery hide ; 
But I will not defile with dust 

The knee that bends to adore 
The God in heaven^ — attend, be just: 

This ask I, and no more ! 

•'I speak not of the winter's cold, 

For summer's heat exchanged, 
While I have lodged in this rough hold. 

From social life estranged ; 
Nor yet of trouble and alarms : 

High Heaven is my defence ; 
And every season has soft arms 

For injured innocence. 



104 THE RUSSIAN FUGmVE, 

From Moscow to tlie wilderness 

It was my choice to come, 
Lest virtue should be harborless, 

And honor want a home ; 
And haj,i)y were I, if the Czar 

Retain his lawless Avill, 
To end life here like this poor deer, 

Or a lamb on a green hili." 

• Are you the maid," the stranger cried, 

" From Gallic parents sprung, 
Whose vanishing was rumored wide, 

Sad theme for every tongue ; 
Who foiled an emperor's eager quest ? 

You, lady, forced to wear 
These rude habiliments, and rest 

Your head in this dark lair!" 

But wonder, pity, soon were quelled ; 

And in her face and mien 
The soul's pure brightness he beheld 

Without a veil between : 
He loved, he hoped, — a holy flame 

Kindled 'mid rapturous tears ; 
T!»e passion of a moment came 

As on the wings of years. 

" Such bounty is no gift of chance," 

Exclaimed he ; " righteous Heaven, 
Preparing your deliverance, 

To me the charge hath given. 
The Czar full oft in words and deeds 

Is stormy and self-willed ; 
But, when the Lady Catherine pleads,, 

His violence is stilled. 



rHE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 105 

" Leave open to my wish the course, 

And I to her will go ; 
From that humane and heavenly source, 

Good, only good, can flow." 
Faint sanction given, the cavalier 

Was eager to depart, 
Though question followed question, dear 

To the maiden's filial heart. 

Light was his step, — his hopes, more light. 

Kept pace with his desires ; 
And the third morning gave him sight 

Of Moscow's glittering spires. 
He sued : — heart-smitten by the wrong. 

To the Icrn fugitive 
The emperor sent a pledge as strong 

As sovereign power could give. 

O more than mighty change ! If e'er 

Amazement rose to pain, 
And over-joy produced a fear 

Of something void and vain, 
'Twas when the parents, who had mourned 

So long the lost as dead, 
Beheld their only child returned, 

The household floor to tread. 

Soon gratitude gave way to love 

Within the maiden's breast : 
Delivered and deliverer move 

In bridal garments drest ; 
Meek Catherine had her own reward ; 

The Czar bestowed a dower ; 
And universal Moscow shared 

The triumph of that hour. 



106 



Flowers strewed the ground; the nuptial feast 

Was held with costly state ; 
And there, 'mid many a noble guest, 

The foster-parents sate ; 
Encouraged by the imperial eye. 

They shrank not into shade ; 
Great was their bliss, the honor high 

To them and nature paid ! 



Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant 
Of such Aveak fibre that the treacherous air 
Of absence withers what was once so fair? 
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ? 
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant 
(As would my deeds have been) with hourly care 
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 
For nought but what my happiness could spare. 
Speak, through this soft warm heart, once free to 

hold 
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, 
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 
Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine ; 
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may 

know ! 



107 



Four fiery steeds impatient of the I'ein 
Whirled us o'er sunless ground beneath a sky 
As void of sunshine, when, from that wide plain, 
Clear tops of far-off mountains we descry, 
Like a Sierra of cerulean Spain, 
All light and lustre. Did no heart reply ? 
Yes, there was one ; — for one, asunder fly 
The thousand links of that ethereal chain ; 
And green A'ales open out, with grove and field. 
And the fair front of many a happy home ; 
Such tempting spots as into vision come 
While soldiers, of the weapons that they wield 
Weary and sick of strifeful Christendom, 
Gaze on the" moon by parting clouds revealed. 



TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT. 

[Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, Esq., for St 
John's College, Cambridge.] 

Go, faithful portrait ! and where long hath knelt 
Margaret, the saintly foundress, take thy place ; 
And, if time spare the colors for the grace 
Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt, 
Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms meJt 
And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem 
To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream. 
To think and feel as once the poet felt. 
Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown 
Unrecognised through many a household tear, 



108 GOLD AND SILVER FISHES. 

More prompt, more glad to fall than drops of dew 
By morning shed around a flower half blown ; 
Tears of delight, tliat testified how true 
To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear ! 



GOLD AND SILVER FISHES, IN A VASE. 

The soaring lark is blest as proud 

When at heaven's gate she sings ; 
The roving bee proclaims aloud 

Her flight by vocal wings ; 
V;'hile ye, in lasting durance pent. 

Your silent lives employ 
For something " more than dull content 

Though haply less than joy." 

Yet might your glassy prison seem 

A place where joy is known, 
Where golden flash and silver gleam 

Have meanings of their own ; 
While, high and low, and all about, 

Your motions, glittering elves ! 
Ye weave — no danger from without, 

And peace among yourselves. 

Type of a sunny human breast 

Is your transparent cell ; 
Whei-e fear is but a transient guest, 

No sullen humors dwell ; 
Where, sensitive of every ray 

That smites this tiny sea. 
Your scaly panoplies rejiay 

The loan with usury. 



GOLD AND SILVER FISHES. 109 

How beautiful ! Yet none knows why 

This ever-graceful change, 
Renewed — renewed incessantly — 

Within your quiet range. 
Is it that ye with conscious skill 

For mutual pleasure glide ; 
And sometimes, not without your will, 

Are dwarfed or magnified ? 

Fays — Genii of gigantic size — 

And now, in twilight dim. 
Clustering like constellated eyes 

In wings of cherubim. 
When they abate their fiery glare : 

Whate'er your forms express, 
Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye ai-e, 

All leads to gentleness. 

Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure ; 

Your birthright is a fence 
From all that haughtier kinds endure 

Through tyranny of sense. 
Ah ! not alone by colors bright 

Are ye to heaven allied. 
When, like essential forms of light, 

Ye mingle, or divide. 

For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled 

Day-thoughts while limbs repose ; 
For moonlight fascinations mild 

Your gift, ere shutters close ; 
Accept, mute captives ! thanks and praise ; 

And may this tribute prove 
That gentle admii-ations raise 

Delight resembling love. 



110 



LIBERTY. 

(sEdUEL TO THE ABOVE.*) 

" The liberty of a people consists in being governed by 
laws which they have made for themselves, under whatever 
form it be of government. The liberty of a private man, in 
being master of his own time and actions, as far as may 
consist with the laws of God and of his country. Of this 
latter we are here to discourse." — Cowley. 

Those breathing tokens of your kind regard, 

(Suspect not, ^nna, that their fate is hard ; 

Not soon does aught to which mild fancies cling, 

in lonely spots, become a slighted thing;) 

Those silent inmates now no longer share, 

Nor- do they need our hospitable care. 

Removed in kindness from their glassy cell 

To the fresh waters of a living well : 

That spreads into an elfin pool opaque 

Of which close boughs a glimmering mirror make, 

On whose smooth breast with dimples light and 

small 
The fly may settle, leaf or blossom fall. 
— There swims, of blazing sun and beating shower 
Fearless (but how obscured!) the golden power, 
That from his bauble prison used to cast 
Gleams by the richest jewel unsurpast; 
And near him, darkling like a sullen gnome, 
The silver tenant of the crystal dome ; 

*Addressed to a Friend ; the Gold and Silver Fighes hav- 
ing been removed to a pool in the pleasure-ground of Rydal 
Mount. 



Ill 



Dissevered both from all the mysteries 

Of hue and altering shape that charmed all eyes. 

They pined, perhaps, they languished while they 

shone ; 
And, if not so, what matters beauty gone 
And admiration lost, by change of place 
That brings to the inward creature no disgrace ? 
But if the change restore his birthright, then, 
Whate'er the difference, boundless is the gain. 
Who can divine what impulses from God 
Reach the caged lark, within a town-abode, 
From his poor inch or two of daisied sod ? 

yield him back his privilege ! No sea 
Swells like the bosom of a man set free ; 
A wilderness is rich with liberty. 

Roll on, ye spouting whales, who die or keep 
Your independence in the fathomless deep I 
Spread, tiny Nautilus, the living sail ; 
Dive, at thy choice, or brave the freshening gale ! 
If unreproved the ambitious eagle mount 
Sunv/ai-d to seek the daylight in its fount. 
Bays, gulfs, and ocean's Indian width, shall be, 
Till the world perishes, a field for thee ! 

While musing here I sit in shadow cool. 
And watch these mute companions, in the pool, 
Among reflected boughs of leafy trees, 
By glimpses caught — disporting at their ease — 
Enlivened, braced, by hardy luxuries, 

1 ask what warrant fixed them (like a spell 
Of Avitchcraft fixed them) in the crystal cell ; 
To wheel with languid motion round and round, 
Beautiful, yet in a mournful durance bound. 
Their peace, perhaps, our lightest footfall marred ; 
On their quick sense our sweetest music jarred ; 



112 



And whither could they dart, if seized with fear ? 
No sheltering stone, no tangled root was near. 
When fire or taper ceased to cheer the room, 
They wore away the night in starless gloom ; 
And, when the sun first dawned upon the streams, 
How faint their portion of his vital beams ! 
Thus, and unable to complain, they fared. 
While not one joy of ours by them was shared. 

Is there a cherished bii-d (I venture now 
To snatch a sprig from Chaucer's i-everend brow) — 
Is there a brilliant fondling of the cage. 
Though sure of plaudits on his costly stage. 
Though fed with dainties from the snow-white 

hand 
Of a kind mistress, fairest of the land. 
But gladly would escape ; and, if need were, 
Scatter the colors from the plumes that bear 
The emancipated captive through blithe air 
Into strange woods, where he at large may live 
On best or worst which they and nature give ? 
The beetle loves his unpretending track, 
The snail the house he carries on his back : 
The far-fetched worm with pleasure would disown 
The bed we give him, though of softest down ; 
A noble instinct ; in all kinds the same. 
All ranks ! What sovereign, worthy of the name, 
If doomed to breathe against his lawful will 
An element that flatters him — to kill. 
But would rejoice to barter outward show 
For the least boon that freedom can bestow ? 

But most the bard is true to inborn right, 
Lark of the dawn, and Philomel of night. 



11' 



Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch 

For the dear blessings of a lowly couch, 

A natural meal — days, months, from nature's 

hand 5 
Time, place, and business, all at his command I 
Who bends to happier duties, who more wise 
Than the industrious poet, taught to prize. 
Above all grandeur, a pure life uncrossed 
By cares in which simplicity is lost ? 
That life --^ the flowery path which winds by 

stealth. 
Which Horace needed for his spirit's health :; 
Sighed for, in heart and genius, overcome 
By noise and strife, and questions wearisome, 
And the vain splendors of imperial Rome ? 
Let easy mirth his social hours inspire, 
And fiction animate his sportive lyre, 
Attuned to verse that crowning light distress 
With garlands cheat her into happiness ; 
Give me the humblest note of those sad strains 
Drawn forth by pressure of his gilded chains 
As a chance sunbeam from his memory fell 
Upon the Sabine farm he loved so well ; 
Or when the prattle of Bandusia's spring 
Haunted his ear — he only listening — 
He proud to please, above all rivals, fit 
To win the palm of gaiety and wit ; 
He, doubt not, with involuntary dread. 
Shrinking from each new favor to be shed. 
By the world's ruler, on his honored head ! 

In a deep vision's intellectual scene, 
Such eai-nest longings and regrets as keen 
Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid 
Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade ; 

8 



114 



A doleful bower for penitcntiul song, 

Where man and muse com[)lained of mutuaJ 

wrong ; 
While Cam's ideal current glided by, 
And antique towers nodded their foreheads high. 
Citadels dear to studious privacy. 
But fortune, who had long been used to sport 
With this tried servant of a thankless court, 
Relenting met his wishes ; and to you 
The remnant of his days at least was true ; 
You, whom, though long deserted, he loved best; 
You, muses, books, fields, liberty, and rest ! 
But happier they who, fixing hope and aim 
On the humanities of peaceful fame. 
Enter hetimes with more than martial fire 
The generous course, rispire, and still aspire ; 
Upheld by warnings heeded not too late 
Stifle the contradictions of their fate. 
And to one purpose cleave, their being's godlike 

mate ! 

Thus, gifted friend, but with a placid brow 
That woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy vow ; 
With modest scorn reject whate'er would blind 
The ethereal eyesight, cramp the winged mind ! 
Then, with a blessing granted from above 
To every act, word, thought, and look of love, 
Life's book for thee may lie unclosed, till age 
Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest page.* 

* There is now, alas ! no possibility of the anticipation, 
with which the above Epistle concludes, being realised : nor 
were the verses ever seen by the individual for whom they 
were intended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. 
Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died of cholera, at the age of 



115 



thirtytwo or thirtythree years, on her way from Shalapore to 
Bombay, deeply lamented by all who knew her. 

Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast ; and her 
great talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful 
in the dif&cult path of life to which she had been called. 
The opinion she entertained of her own performances, given 
to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, was modest 
and humble, and, indeed, far below their merits ; as is often 
the case with those who are making trial of their powers 
with a hope to discover what they are best fitted for. In 
one quality, viz., quickness in the motions of her mind, she 
was in the author's estimation unequalled. 



116 

EVENING VOLUNTARIES, 

I. 

Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose 
Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews. 
Look for the stars, you '11 say that there are none ^ 
Look up a second time, and, one by one, 
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light. 
And wonder how they could elude the sight. 
The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, 
Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers, 
But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers : 
Nor does the village church-clock's iron tone 
The time's and season's influence disown ; 
Nine beats distinctly to each other bound 
In drowsy sequence ; how unlike the sound 
That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear 
On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear I 
The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun, 
Had closed his door before the day was done. 
And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep. 
And join his little children in their sleep. 
The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade, 
Flits and reflits along the close arcade ; 
Far-heard the dor-hawk chases the white moth 
With burring note, which industry and sloth 
Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both. 
Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more ; 
One boat there was, but it will touch the shore 
With the next dipping of its slackened oar ; 
Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay. 
Might give to serious thought a moment's sway 
As a last token of man's toilsome day ! 



SVENING VOLUNTARIES. 117 



11. 



Not in the lucid intervals of life 

That come but as a curse to party-sti-ife ; 

Not in some hour when pleasure with a sigh 

Of languor puts liis rosy garland by ; 

Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave 

Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave, 

Is nature felt, or can be •; nor do words. 

Which practised talent readily affords. 

Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords. 

Nor has her gentle beauty power to move 

With genuine rapture and with fervent love 

The soul of genius, if he dares to take 

Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake ; 

Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent 

Of all the ti'uly great and all the innocent. 

But who is iunocent ? By grace divine. 

Not otherwise, O nature ! we are thine, 

Throiigh good and evil thine, in just degree 

Of rational and manly sympathy. 

To all that earth from pensive hearts is stealing, 

And heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing. 

Add every charm the universe can show 

Through every change its aspects undergo. 

Care may be respited, but not repealed ; 

No perfect cure grows on that bounded field, 

Vain is the pleasure, a fa'se calm the peace, 

If he, through whom alone our conflicts cease. 

Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance, 

Come not to speed the soul's deliverance ; 

To the distemi)ered intellect refuse 

His gracious help, or give what we abuse. , 



118 EVENING VOLCNTARIES. 



III. 

(by the side of rydal mere.) 

The linnet's warble, Ksinking towards a close, 

Hints to the thrush 't is time for their repose; 

The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and again 

The monitor revives his own sweet strain ; 

But both will soon be mastered, and the coj»se 

Be left as silent as the niouutain-tops, 

Ere some commanding star dismiss to rest 

The throng of rooks, that now, from twig or nest, 

(After a steady flight on home-bound wings, 

And a last ganje of mazy hoverings 

Around their ancient grove) with cawing noise 

Disturb the liquid music's equipoise. 

O Nightingale I Who ever heard thy song 

Might here be moved, till fancy grows so strong 

That listening sense is pardonably cheated 

Where wood or stream by thee was never greeted. 

Surely, from fairest spots of favored lands, 

Were not some gifts withheld by jealous hands, 

This hour of deepening darkness here would be, 

As a fresh morning for new harmony : 

And lays as prompt would hail the dawn of night ; 

A dawn she has both beautiful and bright. 

When the east kindles with the full moon's light. 

Wanderer by spring with gradual i)rogress led, 
For sway profoundly felt as widely spread ; 
To king, to peasant, to rough sailor, dear. 
And to the soldier's trumpet- wearied ear. 
How welcome wouldst thou be to this green vale 
Fairer than Tempo ! Yet, sweet nightingale I 



EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 119 

From the warm breeze that bears thee on alight 
At will, and stay thy migratory flight ; 
Build, at thy choice, or sing, by jdooI or fount, 
Who shall complain, or call thee to account ? 
The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they 
That ever walk content with nature's way, 
God's goodness measuring bounty as it may ; 
For whom the gravest thought of what they miss, 
Chastening the fulness of a present bliss. 
Is with that wholesome office satisfied, 
While um-epining sadness is allied 
In thankful bosoms to a modest pride. 



IV. 



Soft as a cloud is yon blue ridge — the mere 
Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, clear, 
And motionless ; and, to the gazer's eye, 
Deeper than ocean, in the immensity 
Of its vague mountains and unreal sky ! 
But, from the process in that still retreat. 
Turn to minuter changes at our feet ; 
Observe how dewy twilight has withdrawn 
The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn, 
And has restored to view its tender green. 
That, while the sun rode high, was lost beneath 

their dazzling sheen. 
— An emblem this of Avhat the sober hour 
Can do for minds disposed to feel its power ! 
Thus oft, when we in vain have wish'd away 
The petty pleasures of the garish day, 



120 EVENING VOLCNXARIES. 

Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping host 
(Unbashful dwarfs each glitterhig at his post) 
And leaves the disencumbered spirit free 
To reassutne a staid simplicity. 
'Tis well — but what are helps of time and place^ 
When wisdom stands in need of nature's grace ; 
Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, descend, 
Like angels from their bowers, our virtues to be- 
friend ; 
If yet to-morrow, unbelied, may say, 
*' I come to open out, for fresh display, 
The elastic vanities of yesterday ? " 



V. 



The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill,. 
And sky that danced among those leaves, are still ; 
Rest smooths the way for sleep ; in field and 

bower 
Soft shades and dews hare shed their blended 

power 
On drooping eyelid and the closing flower; 
Sound is there none at which the faintest heart 
Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition 

start ; 
Save when the owlet's unexpected scream 
Pierces the ethereal vault ; and 'mid the gleam 
Of unsubstantial imagery — the dream, 
From the hushed vale's realities, transferred 
To the still lake, the imaginative bird 
Seems, 'xnid inverted mountains, not unheard. 



EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 121 

Grave creature ! whether, while the moon 

shines bright 
On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight, 
Thou art discovered in a roofless tower, 
Rising from what may once have been a lady's 

bower : 
Or spied where thou sit'st moping in thy mew 
At the dim centi-e of a churchyard yew ; 
Or, from a rifted crag or ivy tod 
Deep in a forest, thy secure abode, 
Thou giv'st, for pastime's sake, by shriek or shout, 
A puzzling notice of thy whei*eabout ; 
May the night never come, the day be seen. 
When I shall scorn thy voice or mock thy mien ! 
In classic ages men perceived a soul 
Of sapience in thy aspect, headless owl ! 
Thee Athens reverenced in the studious grove ; 
And, near the golden sceptre grasped by Jove, 
His eagle's favorite perch, while round him sate 
The gods revolving the decrees of fate. 
Thou, too, wert present at Minerva's side — 
Hark to that second larum ! far and wide 
The elements have heard, and rock and cave 

replied. 



VI. 



The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, 
Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire, 
Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams. 
Prelude of night's aj.proach with soothing dreams. 



122 EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 

Look round ; — of all the clouds not one is mov- 
ing ; 
'T is the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving. 
Silent, and steadfast as the vaulted sky, 
The boundless plain of waters seems to lie: — 
Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er 
The grass-crowned headland that conceals the 

shore ! 
No, 't is the earth-voice of the mighty sea, 
Whispering how meek and gentle he can be ! 

Thou power supreme ! who, arming to rebuke 
Offenders, dost put off the gracious look. 
And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood 
Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood, 
Whatever discipline thy will ordain 
For the brief course that must for me remain ; 
Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice 
In admonitions of thy softest voice ! 
Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace, 
Breathe through my soul the blessing of tliy grace, 
Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere 
Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear ; 
Glad to expand, and, for a season, free 
From finite cares, to rest absorbed in thee ! 



VU. 

(by THE SE A-S IDE.) 

The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest 
And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest ; 



EVENING VOLUNTARIES. IJiS 

Air slumbers — wave with wave no longer strives, 
Only a heaving of the deep survives, 
A tell-tale motion ! soon will it be laid, 
And by the tide alone the water swayed. 
Stealthy withdrawings, interminglings mild 
Of light with shade in beauty reconciled — 
Such is the prospect far as sight can range, 
The soothing recompense, the welcome change. 
Where now the ships that drove before the blast, 
Threatened by angry breakers as they passed ; 
And by a train of flying clouds bemocked ; 
Or, in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked 
As on a bed of death ? some lodge in peace. 
Saved by his care who bade the tempests cease ; 
And some, too heedless of past danger, court 
Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off port ; 
But near, or hanging sea and sky between, 
Not one of all those winged powers is seen. 
Seen in her course, nor 'mid this quiet heard ; 
Yet oh ! how gladly would the air be stirred 
By some acknowledgement of thanks and praise. 
Soft in its temper as those vesper lays 
Sung to the Virgin while accordant oars 
Urge the slow bai-k along Calabrian shores ; 
A sea-born service through the mountains felt . 
Till into one loved vision all things melt : 
Or like those hymns that soothe with gi-aver sound 
The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound ; 
And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise 
With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies. 
Hush, not a voice is here ! but why repine, 
Now when the star of eve comes forth to shine 
On British waters with that look benign ? 



124 EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 

Ye mariners, that plough your onward w^ay, 
Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay. 
May silent thanks at least to God be given 
With a full heart, "our thoughts are heard in 
heaven !'' 



VI IJ. 

[The former of the two following Pieces appeared, many 
years ago, among the Author's poems, from which, in 
subsequent editions, it was excluded. It is here reprinted, 
at the request of a friend who was present when the lines 
were thrown off as an impromptu. 

For printing the latter, some reason should be given, as 
not a word of it is original : it is simply a fine stanza of 
Akenside, connected with a still finer from Beattie, by a 
couplet of Thomson. This practice, in which the author 
sometimes indulges, of linking together, in his own mind, 
favorite passages from different authors, seems in itself 
unobjectionable : but, as the publishing- such compilations 
might lead to confusion in literature, he should deem him- 
self inexcusable in giving this specimen, were it not from a 
hope that it might open to others a harmless source of pri- 
vate gratification.] 

The sun has long been set. 

The stars are out by twos and threes, 
The little birds are piping yet 

Among the bushes and trees ; 
There 's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes, 
And a far-off wind that rushes, 
And a sound of water that gushes. 



EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 125 

And the cuckoo's sovereign cry 
Fills all the hollow of the sky. 
Who would " go parading" 
In London, " and masquerading," 
On such a night of June 
With that beautiful soft half-moon, 
And all these innocent blisses, 
On such a night as this is ? 



IX. 

Throned in the sun's descending car 
What power unseen diffuses far 

This tenderness of mind? 
What genius smiles on yonder flood ? 
What God in whispers from the wood 

Bids every thought be kind ? 

O ever pleasing solitude, 
Companion of the wise and good. 
Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine, 

Thy charms my only theme ; 
My haunt the hollow cliff whose pine 

Waves o'er the gloomy stream ; 
Whence the sacred owl on pinions gray 

Breaks from the rustling boughs, 
And down the lone vale sails away 

To more profound repose ! 



126 



THE LABORER'S NOON-D \Y HYMN. 

Up to the throue of Gol is borne 
The voice of praise at early morn, 
And he accepts the punctual hymn 
Sung as the light of day grows dim. 

Nor will he turn his ear aside 
From holy oflFerings at noontide : 
Then here reposing let us raise 
A song of gratitude and praise. 

"What though our burthen be not light 
We need not toil from morn to night ; 
The respite of the mid-day hour 
Is in the thankful creature's power. 

Blest are the moments, doubly blest, 
That, drawn from this one hour of rest. 
Are with a ready heart bestowed 
Upon the service of our God ! 

Why should we ci-ave a hallowed spot ! 
An altar is in each man's cot, 
A church in every grove that spreads 
Its living roof above our heads. 

Look up to Heaven ! the industrious sun 
Already half his race hath run ; 
He cannot halt nor go astray. 
But our immortal spirits may. 



A wreh's nest. 127 

Lord ! since his rising in the east, 
If we have faltered or transgressed, 
Guide, from thy love's abundant source, 
What yet remains of this day's course : 

Help with thy grace, through life's short day 
Our upward and our downward way; 
And glorify for us the west, 
When we shall sink to final rest. 



A WREN'S NEST. 

Among the dwellings framed by birds 
In field or forest with nice care, 

Is none that with the little wren's 
In snugness may compare. 

No door the tenement requires, 
And seldom needs a labored roof; 

Yet is it to the fiercest sun 
Impervious and storm-proof. 

So warm, so beautiful withal. 
In perfect fitness for its aim. 

That to the kind by special grace 
Their instinct surely came. 

And when for their abodes they seek 

An opportune recess. 
The hermit has no finer eye 

For shadowy quietness. 



128 A wren's nest. 

These find, 'mid ivied abbey walls, 

A canopy in some still nook ; 
Others are pent-housed by a brae 

That overhangs a brook. 

There to the brooding bird her mate 
Warbles by fits his low clear song; 

And by the busy sti'eamlet both 
Are sung to all day long. 

Or in sequestered lanes they build, 
Where, till the flitting bird's return, 

Her eggs within the nest repose, 
Like relics in an urn. 

But still where general choice is good. 

There is a better and a best ; 
And, among fairest objects, some 

Are fairer than the rest ; 

This, one of those small builders proved 
In a green covert, where, from out 

The forehead of a pollard oak, 
The leafy antlers sprout ; 

For she who planned the mossy lodge, 

Mistrusting her evasive skill, 
Had to a primrose looked for aid 

Her wishes to fulfil. 

High on the trunk's projecting brow. 
And fixed an infant's span above 

The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest 
The prettiest of the grove ! 



A wren's nest. 129 

'Hie treasure proudly did I show 

To some whose minds without disdain 

Can turn to little things, but once 
Looked up for it in vain : 

'Tis gone — a ruthless spoiler's prey, 
Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 

''T is gone ! (so seemed itj and we grieved 
Indignant at the wrong. 

Just three days after, passing by 

In clearer light the moss-built cell 
I saw, espied its shaded mouth. 

And felt that all was well. 

The primrose for a veil had spread 

The largest of her upright leaves; 
And thus, for purposes benign, 

A simple flower deceives. 

Concealed from friends who might disturb 

Thy quiet with no ill intent, 
Secure from evil eyes and hands 

On barbarous plunder bent, 

Rest, mother-bird I and when thy young 
Take flight, and thou art free to roam, 

When withered is the guardian flower, 
And empty thy late home, 

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, 

Amid the unviolated grove 
Housed near the growing primrose tuft 

In foresight, or in love. 



130 



SONNETS 

COMPOSED OK SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 
IN THE SUMMER OF 1833. 

[Having been prevented by the lateness of the season, in 
1831, from visiting Staffa and lona, the author made these 
the principal objects of a short tour in the summer of 1833, 
of which the following series of sonnets is a memorial.. 
The course pursued was down the Cumberland river Der- 
went, and to Whitehaven; thence (by the Isle of Man, 
where a few days were passed) up to the Frith of Clyde to 
Greenock, then to Oban, Staffa, lona ; and back towards 
England, by Loch Awe, Inverary, Loch Goil-head, Greenock, 
and through parts of Renfrewshire, Ayrshire, and Dumfries- 
shire, to Carlisle, and thence up the river Eden, and home- 
wards by UUswater.] 



Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown 
And spread as if ye knew that days might come 
When ye would shelter in a happy home, 
On this fair mount, a poet of your own, 
One who ne'er ventured for a Delphic crown 
To sue the God ; but, haunting your green shade 
All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid 
Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, self 

sown, 
Farewell ! no minstrels now with harp new-strung 
For summer wandering quit their household 

bowers ; 
Yet not for this wants poesy a tongue 
To cheer the itinerant on whom she pours 
Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors. 
Or musing sits forsaken halls among. 



131 



II. 

Wht should the enthusiast, journeying through 

this isle, 
Eepine as if his hour wer:; come too late ? 
Not unprotected in her mouldering state, 
Antiquity salutes him with a smile, 
'Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund toil. 
And pleasure-grounds where taste, refined co-mate 
Of truth and beauty, strives to imitate. 
Far as she may, primeval Nature's style. 
Fair land ! by time's parental love made free. 
By social order's watchful arms embraced, 
With unexampled union meet in thee. 
For eye and mind, the present and the past ^ 
With golden prospect for futurity, 
If what is rightly reverenced may last. 



ITL 



They called thee merry England, in old time ; 

A happy people won for thee that name 

With envy heard in many a distant clime ; 

And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the same 

Endearing title, a responsive chime 

To the heart's fond belief, though some there are 

Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare 

For inattentive fancy, like the lime 

Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask. 

This face of rural beauty be a mask 



132 



For fliscontent, and poverty, and crime ;" 
These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will ; 
Forbid it, Heaven ! — that " merry England" still 
May be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme ! 



IV. 

TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK. 

Greta, what fearful listening! when huge stouee 
Rumble along thy bed, block after block : 
Or, whirling witla reiterated shock, 
Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans: 
But if thou (like Cocytus' from the moans 
Heard on bis rueful margin) thence wert named 
The mourner, thy true nature was defamed, 
And the habitual murmur that atones 
For thy worst rage, forgotten. Oft as Spring 
Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand thrones^ 
Seats of glad instinct and love's caroUingj 
The concert, for the happy, then may vie 
With liveliest peals of birth-day harmony : 
To a grieved heart, the notes are benisons^ 



133 



V. 

TO THE RIVER DERWENT.2 

Among the mountains were we nursed, loved 

stream ! 
Thou near the eagle's nest — within brief sail, 
I, of his bold wing floating on the gale, 
Where thy deep voice could lull me! Faint the 

beam 
Of human life when first allowed to gleam 
'On mortal notice. — Glory of the vale, 
Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail, 
Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam 
Of thy soft breath i — Less vivid wreath entwined 
Nemeean victor's brow; less bright was worn. 
Meed of some Roman chief — in triumph borne 
With captives chained ; and shedding from his car 
The sunset splendors of a finished war 
Upon the proud enslavers of mankind ! 



VL 

IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTHj 

(where the AUTHOa WAS EORK, AND HIS FATHER'S EB- 
MAINS ARE LAID.) 

A POINT of life betv/een my parent's dust, 
And your's, my buried little-ones! am I; 
And to those graves looking habitually 
In kindred quiet I repose my trust. 



134 SONNETS- 

Death to the innocent is more than just. 
And, to the sinner, mercifully bent ; 
So may 1 hope, if truly I i-epent 
And meekly bear the ills which bear I must r 
And you, my offspring! that do still remain. 
Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race, 
If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain 
We breathed together for a moment's space, - 
The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign,. 
And only love keep in your hearts a place. 



vn. 

ADDRESS FROM THE SPIRIT OF COCKERMOUTH 
CASTLE. 

Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think. 

Poet ! that, stricken as both are by years. 

We, differing once so much, are now compeers, 

Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink 

Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link 

United us ; when thou, in boyish play, 

Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey 

To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink 

Of light was there ; — and thus did I, thy tutor. 

Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the 

grave ; 
While thou wert chasing the wiug'd butterfly 
Through my green courts ; or climbing, a bold 

suitor, 
Up to the flowers whose golden progeny 
Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave,. 



135 



VIII. 

NUN'S WEILL, BRIGHAM. 

The cattle crowding round this beverage clear 
To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod 
The encircling turf into a barren clod ; 
Through which the waters creep, then disappear. 
Borne to be lost in Derwent flowing near ; 
Yet, o'er the brink, and round the limestone-cell 
Of a pure spring (they call it the " Nun's Well," 
Name that first struck by chance my startled ear) 
A tender spirit broods — the pensive shade 
Of ritual honors to this fountain paid 
By hooded votaries 3 with saintly cheer ; 
Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild 
Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled 
Into the shedding of " too soft a tear." 



IX. 

TO A FRIEND, 

(on the banks of the derwent.) 

Pastor and patriot ! at whose bidding rise 
These modest walls, amid a flock that need 
For one who comes to watch them and to feed 
A fixed abode, keep down presageful sighs. 
Threats which the unthinking only can despise, 



136 



Perplex the cliurch ; but be thou firm, — be true 
To thy first hope, and this good work pursue. 
Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice 
Dost thou prepare, whose sign will be the smoke 
Of thy new hearth ; and sooner shall its wreaths. 
Mounting while earth her morning incense breathes, 
From wandering fiends of air receive a yoke. 
And straightway cease to aspire, than God disdain 
This humble tril)ute as ill-timed or vain. 



MARY aUEEN OF SCOT&^, 

(landing at the biouth of the derwent, workingtok.4 ; 

Dear to the loves, and to the graces voAved, 
The queen drew back the wimple that she wore : 
And to the throng how touchingly she bowed 
That hailed her landing on the Cumbi-ian shore ; 
Bright as a star (that, from a sombre cloud 
Of piue-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts. 
When soft summer gale at evening parts 
The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud] 
She smiled ; but tidie, the old Saturnian seer, 
Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand. 
With step prelusive to a long array 
Of woes and degradations hand in hand, 
Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear 
Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fothcringay t 



137 



XI. 

IN THE CHANNEL, BETWEEN THE COAST OP 
CUMBERLAND AND THE ISLE OF MAN. 

Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Black-coom, 

In his lone course the shepherd oft will pause, 

And strive to fathom the mysterious laws 

By which the clouds, arrayed in light or gloom, 

On Mona settle, and the shapes assume 

Of all her peaks and ridges. What he draws 

From senss, faith, reason, fancy, of the cause 

He will take with him to the silent tomb: 

Or, by his fire, a child upon his knee. 

Haply the untaught philosopher may speak 

Of the strange sight, nor hide his theory 

That satisfies the simple and the meek, 

Blest in their pious ignorance, though weak 

To cope with sages undevoutly free. 



XII. 

AT SEA OFF THE ISLE OF MAN. 

Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was 

strong, 
That no adventurer's bark had power to gain 
These shores if he approached them bent on 

wrong ; 
For, suddenly up-conjured from the main, 



198 SONNETS. 

Mists rose to hide the land — that search, though 

long 
And eager, might be still pursued in vain. 
O fancy, what an age was that for song ! 
That age, when not by laws inanimate. 
As men believed, the waters were impelled. 
The air controlled, the stars their courses held, 
But element and orb on acts did wait 
Of Powers endued with visible form, instinct 
With will, and to their work by passion linked. 



XIII. 

Desire we past illusions to recall? 
To reinstate wild fancy would we hide 
Truths whose thick veil science has drawn aside. 
No, — let this age, high as she may, install 
In her esteem the thirst that wrought man's fall, 
The universe is infinitely wide. 
And conquei'ing reason, if self-glorified, 
Can nowhere move uncrossed by some new wall 
Or gulf of mystery, which thou alone, 
Imaginative faith I canst overleap, 
In progress toward the fount of love, — the throne 
. Of power, whose ministering spirits records keep 
Of periods fixed, and laws established, less 
Flesh to exalt than prove its nothingness. 



XIV. 

ON ENTERING DOUGLAS BAY, ISLE OP MAN. 

" Dignum laude viram Musa vetat mori." 

The feudal keep, the bastions of Cohorn, 
Even when they rose to check or to repel 
Tides of aggressive war, oft served as well 
Greedy ambition, armed to treat with scorn 
Just limits ; but yon tower, whose smiles adorn 
This perilous bay, stands clear of all offence ; 
Blest work it is of love and innocence, 
A tower of refuge to the else forlorn. 
Spare it, ye waves, and lift the mariner. 
Struggling for life, into its saving arms ! 
Spare, too, the human helpers ! Do they stir 
'Mid your fierce shock like men afraid to die ? 
No, their dread service nerves the heart it warms, 
And they are led by noble Hillary.5 



XV. 

BY THE SEA-SHORE, ISLE OF MAN. 

Why stand we gazing on the sparkling brine 

With wonder, smit by its transparency, 

And all-enraptured with its purity ? 

Because the unstained, the clear, the crystalline, 

Have ever in them something of benign j 



140 SONNETS. 

Whether in gem, in water, or in sky, 
A sleeping infant's brow, or wakeful eye 
Of a young maiden, only not divine. 
Scarcely the hand forbears to dip its palm 
For beverage drawn as from a mountain well ; 
Temptation centres in the liquid calm ; 
Our daily raiment seems no obstacle 
To instantaneous plunging in, deep sea ! 
And revelling in long embrace with thee. 



XVI. 

ISLE OF MAN. 



A YOUTH too certain of his power to wade 
On the smooth bottom of this clear bright sea, 
To sight so shallow, with a bather's glee 
Leapt from this rock, and surely, had not aid 
Been near, must soon have breathed out life, 

betrayed 
By fondly trusting to an element 
Fair, and to others more than innocent ; 
Then had sea-nymphs sung dii-ges for him laid 
In peaceful earth : for, doubtless, he was frank, 
Utterly in himself devoid of guile ; 
Knew not the double-dealing of a smile ; 
Nor aught that makes men's promises a blank. 
Or deadly snare : and he survives to bless 
The power that saved him in his strange distress. 



141 



XVII. 

THE RETIRED MARINE OFFICER, ISLE OP MAN, 

Not pangs of grief for lenient time too keen, 
Grief that devouring waves had caused, nor guilt 
Which they had witnessed, swayed the man who 

built 
This homestead, placed where nothing could be 

seen. 
Nought heard of ocean, troubled or serene, i 
A tired ship-soldier on paternal land, 
That o'er the channel holds august command. 
The dwelling raised, — a veteran marine ; 
Who, in disgust, turned from the neighboring sea 
To shun the memory of a listless life 
That hung between two callings. May no strife 
More hurtful here beset him, doom'd, though free, 
Self-doom'd to worse inaction, till his eye 
Shrink from the daily sight of earth and sky I 



XVIII. 

BY A RETIRED MARINER, 

(a fhiend of the author. 6) 

From early youth I ploughed the restless main, 
My mind as restless and as apt to change ; 
Through every clime and ocean did I range, 
In hope at length a competence to gain ; 



142 



For poor to sea I went, and poor I still remain. 
Year after year I strove, but strove in vain, 
And hardships manifold did I endure, 
For fortune on me never deign'd to smile; 
Yet I at last a resting-place have found. 
With just enough life's comforts to procure, 
In a snug cove on this our favored isle, 
A peaceful spot where Nature's gifts abound ; ' 
Then sure I have no reason to complain. 
Though poor to sea I went, and poor I still remain. 



XIX. 

AT BALA-SALA, ISLE OF MAN. 

(supposed to be written by a friend of the author.) 

Broken in fortune, but in mind entire 

And sound in principle, I seek repose 

Where ancient trees this convent-pile inclose,* 

In ruin beautiful. When vain desire 

Intrudes on peace, I pray the eternal Sire 

To cast a soul-subduing shade on me, 

A gray-haired, pensive, thankful refugee, 

A shade but with some sparks of heavenly fire 

Once to these cells vouchsafed. And when I note 

The old tower's brow yellowed as with the beams 

Of sunset ever there, albeit streams 

Of stormy weathei'-stains that semblance wrought, 

I thank the silent monitor, and say 

" Shine so, my aged brow, at all hours of the day !" 

* Rushen Abbey. 



143 



XX. 

TYNWALD HILL. 

Once on the top of Tynwald's formal mound 
(Still mai'ked with green turf circles narrowing 
Stage above stage) would sit this island's king, 
The laws to promulgate, enrobed and crowned ; 
While compassing the little mount around, 
Degrees and orders stood, each under each : 
Now, like to things within fate's easiest reach, 
The power is merged, the pomp a grave has found. 
Off with yon cloud, old Snafell ! "> that thine eye 
Over three realms may take its widest range ; 
And let, for them, thy fountains utter strange 
Voices, thy winds break forth in prophecy. 
If the whole state must suffer mortal change, 
Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty. 



XXI. 

Despond who will — / heard a voice exclaim, 
"Though fierce the assault, and shatter'd the 

defence. 
It cannot be that Britain's social frame, 
The glorious work of time and providence. 
Before a flying season's rash pretence. 
Should fall ; that she, whose virtue put to shame, 
When Europe prostrate lay, the conqueror's aim, 



144 SONNETS. 

Should perish, self-subverted. Black and dense 
The cloud is ; but brings that a day of doom 
To liberty ? Her sun is up the while, 
That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred shone. 
Then laugh, ye innocent vales ! ye streams, sweep 

on, 
Nor let one billow of our heaven-blest isle 
Toss in the fanning wind a humbler plume." 



XXII. 

IN THE FRITH OF CLYDE, AILSA CRAG. 

(JULY 17, 1833.) 

Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy, 
Appeared the crag of Ailsa ; ne'er did morn 
With gleaming lights more gracefully adorn 
His sides, or wreathe with mist his forehead high: 
Now, faintly darkening with the sun's eclipse, 
Still is he seen, in lone sublimity, 
Towering above the sea and little ships ; 
For dwarfs the tallest seem while sailing by. 
Each for her haven ; with her freight of care, 
Pleasure, or grief, and toil that seldom looks 
Into the secret of tomorrow's fare ; 
Though poor, yet rich, without the wealth of books, 
Or aught that watchful love to Nature owes 
For her mute powers, fix'd forms, and transient 
shows. 



145 



XXIII. 

ON THE FRITH OF CLYDE. 

(in a steam-boat.) 

Arran! a single-crested Teneriffe, 
A St Helena next — in shape and hue, 
Varying her crowded peaks and ridges blue ; 
Who but must covet a cloud-seat or skiff 
Built for the air, or winged Hippogi-iff, 
That he might fly, where no one could pursue, 
From this dull monster and her sooty crew ; 
And, like a god, light on thy topmost cliff. 
Impotent wish ! which reason would despise 
If the mind knew no union of extremes, 
No natural bond between the boldest schenies 
Ambition frames, and heart-humilities. 
Beneath stern mountains many a soft vale lies, 
And lofty springs give birth to lowly streams. 



XXIV. 

ON REVISITING DUNOLLY CASTLE. 8 

[See former series, p. 25.] 

The captive bird was gone ; — to cliff or moor 
Perchance had flown, delivered by the storm ; 
Or he had pined, and sunk to feed the worm : 
Him found we not ; but, climbing a tall tower, 
10 



I4G 



There saw im{)avetl with rude fidelity 

Of art mosaic, in a roofless floor, 

An eagle with stretched vvings, butbeamless eye — 

x\n eagle that could neither wail nor soar. 

Effigies of the vanished, (shall I dare 

To call thee so?) or symbol of the past times, 

That towering courage, and the savage deeds 

Those times are proud of, take thou too a sharc^ 

Not undeserved, of the memorial rhymes 

That animate my way where'er it leads I 



XXV. 

THE DUNOLLY EAGLE. 

Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew ; 
But when a storm, on sea or mountain bred,^ 
Came and delivered him, alone he sped 
Into the castle-dungeon's darkest mew. 
Now, near his master's house in open view 
He dwells, and hears indignant tempests howl, 
Kennelled and chained. Ye tame domestic fowl. 
Beware of him ! Thou, saucy cockatoo. 
Look to thy plumage and thy life ! — The roe, 
Fleet as the west wind, is for him no quarry ; 
Balanced in ether he will never tarry. 
Eyeing the sea's blue depths. Poor bird ! even so 
Doth man of brother- man a creature make, 
Tliat clings to slavery for its own sad sake. 



I 



147 



xxvr. 

CAVE OP STAPPA. 

We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd, 

Not one of us has felt, the far-famed sight ; 

How could we feel it? each the other's blight, 

Hurried and hurrying, volatile and loud, 

O for those motions only that invite 

The ghost of Fingal to his tuneful cave ! 

By the breeze entered, and wave after wave 

Softly embosoming the timid light ! 

And by one votary who at will might stand 

Gazing, and take into his mind and heart 

With undistracted reverence, the effect 

Of those proportions where the Almighty hand 

That made the worlds, the sovereign architect. 

Has deigned to work as if with human art ! 



XXVII. 

CAVE OP STAPPA. 



Thanks for the lessons of this spot — fit school 
For the jjresumptuous thoughts that would assign 
Mechanic laws to agency divine ; 
And, measuring heaven by earth, would overrule 
Infinite power. The pillared vestibule. 
Expanding yet precise, the roof embowed, 
Might seem designed to humble man, when proud 



148 



Of his best workmanship by plan and tool, 
Down-bearing with bis whole Atlantic weight 
Of tide and tempest on the structure's base, 
And flashing upwards to its topmost height, 
Ocean has proved its strength, and of its grace 
In calms is conscious, finding for his freight 
Of softest music some responsive place. 



XXVIII. 

CAVE OF STAFPA. 



Ye shadowy beings, that have rights and claims 
In every cell of Fingal's mystic grot, 
Where are ye ? Driven or venturing to the spot, 
Our fathers glimpses caught of your thin frames, 
And, by your mien and bearing, knew your names; 
And they could hear Ms ghostly song who trod 
Earth, till the flesh lay on him like a load. 
While he struck his desolate harp without hopes 

or aims. 
Vanished ye ai-e, but subject to recall ; 
Why keep tve else the instincts whose dread law 
Ruled here of yore, till what men felt they saw, 
Not by black arts but magic natural I 
If eyes be still sworn vassals of belief, 
Yon light shapes forth a bard, that shade a chief. 



149 



XXIX. 

FLOWERS ON THE TOP OF THE PILLARS AT 
THE ENTRANCE OF THE CAVE. 

Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, 
Children of summer ! 1° Ye fresh flowers that brave 
What summer here escapes not, the fierce wave. 
And whole artillery of the western blast. 
Battering the temple's front, its long-drawn nave 
Smiting, as if each moment were their last. 
But ye, bright flowers, on frieze and architrave 
Survive, and ouce again the pile stands fast, 
Calm as the universe, from specular towers 
Of heaven contemplated by spirits pure — 
Suns and their systems, diverse yet sustained 
In symmetry, and fashioned to endure, 
Unhurt, the assaults of time with all his hours, 
As the supreme artificer ordained. 



XXX. 

On to lona! — What can she afford 
To us save matter for a thoughtful sigh, 
Heaved over ruin with stability 
In urgent contrast ? To diff'use the Word 
(Thy paramount, mighty nature ! and time's Lord) 
Her temples rose, 'mid pagan gloom ; but why, 
Even for a moment, has our verse deplored 
Their wrongs, since they fulfilled their destiny ? 



150 



And when, subjected to a common doom 
Of mutability, those far-famed piles 
Shall disappear from both the sister isles, 
lona's saints, forgetting not past days, 
Gai-lands shall wear of amaranthine bloom, 
While heaven's vast sea of voices chants then" 
praise. 



XXXL 

lONA. 

(upon landing.) 



With earnest look, to every voyager. 
Some ragged child holds up for sale his store 
Of Avave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore 
Where once came monk and nun with gentle stir, 
Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer. 
But see yon neat trim church, a grateful speck 
Of novelty amid this sacred Avreck — 
Nay, spare thy scorn, haughty philosopher ! 
Fallen though she be, this glory of the west, 
Still on her sons the beams of mercy shine ; 
And " hopes, perhaps more heavenly bright than 

thine, 
A grace by thee unsought and unpossest, 
A faith itiore fixed, a rapture more divine 
Shall gild their passage to eternal rest." ^^ 



151 



xxxn. 

THE BLACK STONES OF lONA. 
[See Martia's Voyage among the Western Isles.] 

Here on their knees men swore : the stones were 

black, 
Black in the people's minds and words, yet tliey 
Were at that time, as now, in color gray. 
But what is color, if upon the rack 
Of conscience souls are placed by deeds that lack 
Concord with oaths ? What differ night and day 
Then, when before the perjured on his way 
Hell opens, and the heavens in vengeance crack 
Above his head uplifted in vain ])rayer 
To saint, or fiend, or to the Godhead whom 
He had insulted — peasant, king, or thane. 
Fly where the culprit may, guilt meets a doom ; 
And, from invisible worlds at need laid bare, 
Come links for social order's awful chain. 



XXXIII. 

Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's cell, 
Where Christian piety's soul-cheering spark 
(Kindled from heaven between the light and dark 
Of time) shone like the morning-star, farewell! — 
Remote St. Kilda, art thou visible ? 
No — but farewell to thee, beloved sea-mark 
For many a voyage made in fancy's bark, 



152 



When, with more hues than in the rainbow dwell 
Thou a mysterious intercourse dost hold ; 
Extracting from clear skies and air serene, 
And out of sun-bright waves, a lucid veil. 
That thickens, spreads, and, mingling fold with 

fold. 
Makes known when thou no longer canst be seen, 
Thy wherabout, to warn the approaching sail. 



XXXIV. 

GREENOCK. 

Per me si va nella Cittk dolente. 

JVe have not passed into a doleful city. 
We who vvere led today down a grim dell. 
By some too boldly named " the Jaws of Hell :" 
Where be the wretched ones, the sights for pity ? 
These crowded streets resound no jylaintive ditty. 
As from the hive where bees in summer dwell. 
Sorrow seems here excluded; and that knell. 
It neither dainps the gay, nor checks the witty. 
Too busy mart! thus fared it with old Tyre, 
Whose merchants princes were, whose decks 

were thrones: 
Soon may the punctual sea in vain respire 
To serve thy need, in nnion with that Clyde 
Whose nursling current brawls o'er mossy stones. 
The poor, the lonely herdsman's joy and pride. 



153 



XXXV. 

" There ! " said a stripling, pointing witli meet 

pride 
Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, 
" Is Mossgiel farm ; a:id that 's the very field 
AVhere Burns ploughed up the daisy." Far and 

wide 
A plain below stretched sea-ward, while, descried 
Above sea clouds, the peaks of Arran rose ; 
And, by that simple notice, the repose 
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
Beneath " the random bield of clod or stone," 
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower 
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour 
Have passed away, less happy than the one 
That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove 
The tender charm of poetry and love. 



XXXVI. 

FANCY AND TRADITION. 

The lovers took within this ancient grove 
Their last embrace ; beside those crystal springs 
The hermit saw the angel spread his wings 
For instant flight ; the sage in yon alcove 
Sate musing ; on that hill the bard would rove 
Not mute, where now the linnet only sings : 
Thus every where to truth tradition clings, 



154 SOJSNETS. 

Or fancy localizes powers we love. 
Were only history licensed to take note 
Of things gone by, her meagre monuments 
Would ill suffice for persons and events : 
There is an ampler page for man to quote, 
A readier book of manifold contents, 
Studied alike in palace and in cot. 



XXXVII. 

THE RIVER EDEN, CUMBERLAND. 

Eden! till now thy beauty had I viewed 
By glimpses only, and confess with shame 
That verse of mine, whate'er its varying mood, 
Repeats but once the sound of thy sweet name^ 
Yet fetched from paradise ^2 that honor came, 
Rightfully borne ; for nature gives thee flowers 
That have no rivals among British bowers ; 
And thy bold rocks are worthy of their fame. 
Measuring thy course, fairstream ! at length I pay 
To my life's neighbor dues of neighborhood ; 
But I have traced thee on thy winding way 
With pleasure sometimes by the thought restrained 
That things far off are toiled for, while a good , 
Not sought, because too near, is seldom gained. 



155 



XXXVIII. 

MONUMENT OF MRS HOWARD, BY NOLLEKINS, 

IN WETHERAL CHURCH, NEAR CORBY, ON THE BANKS OF THE 
EDEN. 

Stretched on the dying mother's lap, lies dead 
Her new-born babe, dire issue of bright hope ! 
But sculpture here, with the divinest scope 
Of luminous faith, heavenward hath raised that 

head 
So patiently ; and through one hand has spread 
A touch so tender for the insensate child, 
Earth's lingering love to parting reconciled. 
Brief parting — for the spirit is all but fled ! 
That we, who contemplate the turns of life 
Through this still medium, are consoled and 

cheered ; 
Feel with the mother, think the severed wife 
Is less to be lamented than revered ; 
And own that art, triumphant over strife 
And pain, hath powers to eternity endeared. 



XXXIX. 



Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou 
In heathen schools of philosophic lore ; 
Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore 
The tragic muse thee served with thoughtful vow 



156 



And what of hope Elysium could allow 
Was fondly seized by sculpture, to restoi-e 
Peace to the mourner's soul ; but he who wore 
The crown of thorns around his bleeding brow 
Warmed our sad being with his glorious light : 
Then arts, which still had drawn a softening grace 
From shadowy fountains of the Infinite, 
Communed with that idea face to face ; 
And move round it now as planets run. 
Each in its orbit, round the central sun. 



XL. 



The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary ; 
Down from the Pennine Alps* how fiercely sweeps 
Croglin, the stately Eden's tributary ! 
He leaves, or through some moody passage creeps 
Plotting new mischief — out again he leaps 
Into broad light, and sends through regions airy. 
That voice which smoothed the nuns while on the 

steeps 
They knelt in prayer, or sang to blissful Mary. 
That union ceased : then, cleaving easy walks 
Through crags, and soothing paths beset with 

danger, 
Came studious taste ; and many a pensive stranger 
Dream.s on the banks, and to the river talks. 

* The chain of Crossfell, which parts Cumberland and 
Westmoreland from Northumberland and Durham. 



157 



AVhat change shall happen next to Nunnery Dell 
Canal, and viaduct, and railway, tell! ^^ 



XLL 

STEAMBOATS, VIADUCTS, AND RAILWAYS, 

Motions and means, on land and sea at war 

With old poetic feeling, not for this, 

Shall ye, by poets even, be judged amiss ! 

Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er it mar 

The loveliness of Nature, prove a bar 

To the mind's gaining that prophetic sense 

Of future change, that point of vision whence 

May be discovered what in soul ye are. 

In spite of all that beauty may disown 

In your harsh features, Nature doth embrace 

Her lawful offspring in man's art ; and time, 

Pleased with your triumphs o'er his brother space, 

Accepts from your bold hands the pi-offered crown 

Of hope, and smiles on you with cheer sublime. 



XLII. 

LowTHER ! in thy majestic pile are seen 
Cathedral pomp and grace, in apt accord 
With the baronial castle's sterner mien ; 
Union significant of God adored, 



158 



And chart(?rs won and guarded by the sword 

Of ancient honor ; whence that goodly state 

Of polity which wise men venerate, 

And will maintain, if God his help afford. 

Hourly the democratic torrent swells ; 

For airy promises and hojies suborned 

The strength of backward-looking thoughts 

scorned. 
Fall if ye must, ye towers and pinnacles. 
With what ye symbolise, authentic story 
Will say, ye disappeared with England's glory ! 



XLIII. 

TO THE EARL OF LONSDALE. 14 

"Magistratus indicat virum." 

Lonsdale ! it were unworthy of a guest, 
Whose heart with gratitude to thee inclines, 
If he should speak, by fancy touched, of signs 
On thy abode harmoniously imprest, 
Yet be unmoved with wishes to attest 
How in thy mind and moral frame agree 
Fortitude and that Christian charity 
Which, filling, consecrates the human breast. 
And if the motto on thy 'scutcheon teach 
With truth, "The magistracy shows the man: 
That searching test thy public course has stood ; 
As will be owned alike by bad and good, 
Soon as the measuring of life's little span 
Shall place thy virtues out of envy's reach. 



159 



XLIV. 

TO CORDELIA M , 

HALLSTEADS, ULLSWATER. 

Not ill the mines beyond the western main, 
You tell me, Delia ! was the metal sought. 
Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has wrought 
Into this flexible yet faithful chain ; 
Nor is it silver of i-omantic Spain 
You say, but from Helvellyn's depths was brought, 
Our own domestic mountain. Thing and thought 
Mix strangely ; trifles light, and partly vain. 
Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler being ; 
Yes, lady, while about your neck is wound 
(Your casual glance oft meeting) this bright cord. 
What witchery, for pure gifts of inward seeing, 
Lurks in it, memory's helper, fancy's lord, 
For precious tremblings in your bosom found ! 



XLV. 

CONCLUSION. 



Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 
While a fair region round the traveller lies 
Which he forbears again to look upon ; 



160 



Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 

The work of fancy, oi- some happy tone 

Of meditation, slipping in between 

The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 

If thought and love desert us from that day, 

Let us break oflF all commerce with the muse ; 

With thought and love companions of our way, 

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse. 

The mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 

Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 



NOTES. 



The River Greta. Page 132. 
1 " But if thou, like Cocytus," &c. 

Many years ago, when the author was at Greta Bridge, in 
Yorkshire, the hostess of the inn, proud of her skill in ety- 
mology, said, that " the name of the river was taken from 
the bridge, the form of which, as every one must notice, ex- 
actly resembles a gi-eat A." But Dr Whitaker has derived 
it from the word of common occurrence in the north of Eng- 
land, "to greet;" signifying to lament aloud, mostly with 
weeping; a conjecture rendered more probable from the 
stony and rocky channel of both the Cumberland and York- 
shire rivers. The Cumberland Greta, though it does not, 
among the country people, take up that name till within 
three miles of its disappearance in the river Derwent, may 
be considered as having its source in the mountain cove of 
Wythburn, and flowing through Thirlmere, the beautiful 
features of which lake are known only to those who, travel- 
ling between Grasmere and Keswick, have quitted the main 
road in the vale of Wythburn, and, crossing over to the 
opposite side of the lake, have proceeded with it on the 
right hand. 

The channel of the Greta, immediately above Keswick, 
has for the purposes of building, been in a great measure 
cleared of the immense stones which, by their concussion in 

u 



162 



high floods, produced the loud and awful noises described in 
the sonnet. 

"The scenery upon this river," says Mr Southey in his 
Colloquies, " where it passes under the woody side of Lat- 
rigg, is of the finest and most rememberable kind : — 

' ambiguo lapsu refluitque fiuitque, 

Occurrensque sibi Venturas aspieit undas.' " 



2 To the River Denoent. Page 133. 

This sonnet has already appeared in several editions of 
the author's poems ; but he is tempted to reprint it in this- 
place, as a natural introduction to the two that follow it. 



Nun's Well, Brigham. Page 135. 
3 " By hooded votaries," &c. 
Attached to the church of Brigham was formerly a chantry, 
which held a moiety of the manor ; and in the decayed 
parsonage some vistages of monastic architecture are still to 
be seen. 

4 Mary Q,ueen of Scots landing- at Workington. Page 136, 

" The fears and impatience of Mary were so great," says 
Robertson, " that she got into a fisher-boat, and with about 
twenty attendants landed at Workington, in Cumberland ; 
and thence she was conducted with many marks of respect 
to Carlisle." The apartment in which the Queen had slept 
at Workington Hall (where she was received by Sir Henry 
Curwen as became her rank and misfortunes) was long pre- 
served, out of respect to her memory, as she had left it ; and 
one cannot but regret that some necessary alterations in the 
mansion could not be efiected without its destruction. 



163 



Doufflas Bay, Isle of Man. Page 139. 
5 " They are led by noble Hillary." 
The Tower of Refuge, an ornament to Douglas Bay, was 
erected chiefly through the humanity and zeal of Sir William 
Hillary : and he also was the founder of the life-boat estab- 
lishment, at that place ; by which, under his superintendence, 
and often by his exertions at the imminent hazard of his 
own life, many seamen and passengers have been saved. 

G By a retired Mariner. Page 141 . 
This unpretending sonnet is by a gentleman nearly con- 
nected with the author who hopes, as it falls so easy into its 
place, that both the writer and the reader will excuse its ap- 
pearance here, 

Tynwald HilL Page 143, 

7 ^-- Off with yon cloud, old Snafell !" 

The summit of this mountain is well chosen by Cowley, 
as the scene of the " Vision," in which the spectral angel 
discourses with him concerning the government of Oliver 
Cromwell. " I found myself," says he, " on the top of that 
famous hill in the Island Mona, which has the prospect of 
three great, and not long since, most happy kingdoms. As 
soon as ever I looked upon them, they called forth the sad 
representation of all the sins and all the miseries that had 
overwhelmed them these twenty years." It is not denied 
that the changes now in progress, and the passions, and the 
way in which they work, strikingly resemble those which 
led to the disasters the philosophic writer so feelingly be - 
wails. God grant that the resemblance may not become still 
more striking as months and years advance ! 



164 



8 On revisiting Donolhj Castle. Page 145. 

This ingenious piece of workmanship, as the author after- 
wards learned, had been executed for their own amusement 
by some laborers employed about the place. 



9 Cave of Staffa. Page 147. 

The reader may be tempted to exclaim, " How came this 
and the two following sonnets to be written, after the dissat- 
isfaction expressed in the preceding one ?" In fact, at the 
risk of incurring the reasonable displeasure of the master of 
the steamboat, the author returned to the cave, and explored 
if under circumstances more favorable to those imaginative 
impressions, which it so wonderfully fitted to make upon 
the mind. 



Sonnet 29. Page 149. 

10 " Hope smiled when your nativity was cast. 
Children of summer !" 
Upon the head of the columns which form the front of 
the cave, rests a body of decomposed basaltic matter, which 
was richly decorated with that large bright flower, the ox- 
eyed daisy. The author had noticed the same flower grow- 
ing with profusion among the bold rocks on the western 
coast of the Isle of Man ; making a brilliant contrast with 
their black and gloomy surfaces. 



n lona. Page 150. 

The four last lines of this sonnet are adopted from a well- 
known sonnet of Rus§el, as conveying the author's feeling 
better than any words of his own could do. 



165 



The River Eden. Page 154. 
12 " Yet fetched from Paradise," &c. 
It is to be feared that there is more of the poet than the 
sound etymologist in this derivatiwi of the name Eden. On 
the western coast of Cumberland is a rivulet which enters 
the sea at Moresby, known also in the neighborhood by the 
name of Eden. May not the latter syllable come from the 
word Dean, a valley 7 Langdale, near Ambleside, is by the 
inhabitants called Langden. The former syllable occurs in 
the name Eamont, a principal feeder of the Eden ; and the 
stream which flows, when the tide is out, over Cartmel 
Sands, is called the Ea. 



Nunnery. Page 157. 

13 " Canal, and viaduct, and railway tell !" 

At Corby, a few miles below Nunnery, the Eden is crossed 

by a magnificent viaduct ; and another of these works is 

thrown over a deep glen or ravine at a very short distance 

from the main stream, 

14 To the Earl of Lonsdale. Page 158. 

This sonnet was written immediately after certain trials, 
which took place at the Cumberland Assizes, when the Earl 
of Lonsdale, in consequence of repeated and long continued 
attacks upon his character, through the local press, had 
thought it right to prosecute the conductors and proprietors 
of three several journals. A verdict of libel was given in 
one case ; and in the others, the prosecutions were withdrawn, 
upon the individuals retracting and disavowing the charges, 
expressing regret that they had been made, and promising to 
abstain from the like in future. 



lie 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF THE COUNTESS OF . 

Nov. 5. 1834. 

Lady ! a pen, perhaps, with thy reganJ, 

Among the favored, favored not the least, 

Left, 'mid the records of this book inscribed, 

Deliberate traces, registers of thought 

And feeling, suited to the place and time 

That gave them birth : — months passed, and stiif 

this hand, 
That had not been too timid to imprint 
Words which the virtues of thy lord inspired, 
Was yet not bold enough to Avrite of thee. 
And why that scrupulous reserve? In sooth 
The blameless cause lay in the theme itself. 
Flowers are there many that delight to strive 
With the sharp wind, and seem to court the shower, 
Yet are by nature careless of the sun 
Whether he shine on them or not ; and some, 
Where'er he moves along the unclouded sky, 
Turn a broad fiont full on his flattering beams: 
Others do i-ather from their notice shrink, 
Loving the dewy shade, — a humble band, 
Modest and sweet, a progeny of earth. 
Congenial with thy mind and character, 
High-born Augusta ! 

Towers, and stately groves, 
Bear witness for me ; thou, too, mountain-stream. 
From thy most secret haunts ; and ye, parterres, 
Which she is pleased and proud to call her own ; 



LINES. 167 

Witness how oft upon my noble friend 
Mute offerings, tribute from an inward sense 
Of admiration and respectful love, 
Have waited, till the affections could no more 
Endure that silence, and broke out in song^ 
Snatches of music taken up and dropt 
Like those self-solacing those under notes 
Trilled by the redbreast, w^hen autumnal leaves 
Are thin upon the bough. Mine, only mine, 
The pleasure was, and no one heard the praise, 
Checked, in the moment of its issue checked ; 
And reprehended by a fancied blush 
iFrom the pure qualities that called it forth. 

Thus virtue lives debarred from virtue's meed 
Thus, lady, is retiredness a veil 
That, while it only spreads a softening charm 
O'er features looked at by discerning eyes. 
Hides half their beauty from the common gaze 5 
And thus, even on the exposed and breezy hill 
Of lofty station, female goodness walks. 
When side by side with lunar gentleness, 
As in a cloister. Yet the grateful poor 
:(Such the immunities of low estate, 
Plain nature's enviable privilege, 
Her sacred recompence for many wants) 
Open tlieir hearts before thee, pouring out 
x\ll that they think and feel, with tears of joy ; 
And benedictions not unheard in hieaven : 
And friend in the ear of friend, where speech is 

free 
To follow truth, is eloquent as they. 

Then let the book receive in these prompt lines 
A just memorial ; and thine eyes consent 



168 



To read that they, who mark thy course, behoM 
A life declining with the golden light 
Of summer, in the season of sere leaves ; 
See cheerfulness undamped by stealing time ; 
See studied kindness flow with easy stream, 
Illustrated with inborn courtesy '^ 
And an habitual disregard of self 
Balanced by vigilance for others' weaL 

And shall the verse not tell of lighter gifts 
With these ennobling attributes conjoined 
And blended, in peculiar harmony, 
By youth's surviving spirit ? What agile grace ! 
A nymph-like liberty, in nymph-like form. 
Beheld with wonder ; whether floor or path 
Thou tread, or on the managed steed art borne. 
Fleet as the shadows, over down or field, 
Driven by strong winds at play among the clouds. 

Yet one word more — one farewell word — a 
wish 
Which came, but it has passed into a prayer, 
That, as thy sun in brightness is declining, 
So, at an hour yet distant for their sakes 
Whose tender love, here faltering on the way 
Of a diviner love, will be forgiven, — 
So may it set in peace, to rise again 
For everlasting glory won by faith. 



169 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 

List, ye who pass by Lyulph's tower * 

At eve ; how softly then 
Doth Aira-foroe, that torrent hoarse, 

Speak from the woody glen ! 
Fit music for a solemn vale ! 

And holier seems the ground 
To him who catches on the gale 
The spirit of a mournful tale 

Embodied in the sound. 

Not far from that fair site whereon 

The pleasure-house is reared, 
As story says, in antique days, 

A stern-brow'd house appeared ; 
Foil to a jewel rich in light 

There set, and guarded well ; 
Cage for a bird of plumage bright. 
Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight 

Beyond her native dell. 

To win this bright bird from her cage, 

To make this gem their own. 
Came barons bold, with store of gold, 

And knights of high renown ; 
But one she prized, and only one ; 

Sir Eglaraore was he ; 
Full happy season, when was known, 
Ye dales and hills I to you alone 

Their mutual loyalty — 

* A pleasure-house built by the late Duke of Norfolk 
upon the banks of UUswater. Force is the word used in 
the Lake District for Water-fall. 



170 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 

Known chiefly, Aira ! to thy glen, 

Thy brook, and bowers of holly ; 
Where passion caught what nature taught, 

That all but love is folly ; 
Where fact with fancy stooped to play, 

Doubt came not, nor regret ; 
To trouble hours that winged tlieir way, 
As if through an immortal day 

Whose sun cou'd never set. 

But in old times love dwelt not long 

Sequestered with repose ; 
Best throve the fire of chaste desire. 

Fanned by the breath of foes. 
" A conquering lance is beauty's test 

And proves the lover true ; " 
So spake Sir Eglatnore, and pressed 
The drooping Emma to his breast, 

And looked a blind adieu. 

They parted. — Well with him it fared 

Through wide-spread regions errant ; 
A knight of proof in love's behoof, 

The thirst of fame his warrant : 
And she her happiness c£in build 

On woman's quiet hours ; 
Though faint, compared with spear and shield, 
The solace beads and masses yield, 

And needle work and flowers. 

Yet blest was Emma when she heard 
Her champion's praise recounted ; 

Though brain would swim, and eyes grow dim, 
And high her blushes mounted ; 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 171 

Or when a bold heroic lay- 
She warbled from full heart : 
Delightful blossoms for the May 
Of absence ! but they will not stay, 
Born only to depart. 

Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills 

Whatever path he chooses ; 
As if his orl), that owns no curb, 

Received the light hers loses. 
He comes not back ; an ampler space 

Requires for nobler deeds ; 
He ranges on from place to place, 
Till of his doings is no trace 

But what her fancy breeds. 

His fame may spread, but in the past 

Her spirit finds its centre ; 
Clear sight she has of what he was, 

And that would now content her. 
" Still is he my devoted knight ? " 

The tear in answer flows ; 
Month falls on month with heavier weight ; 
Day sickens round her, and the night 

Is empty of repose. 

In sleep she sometimes walked abroad, 

Deep sighs with quick words blending. 
Like that pale queen whose hands are seen 

With fancied spots contending ; 
But she is innocent of blood, — 

The moon is not more pure 
That shines aloft, while through the wood 
She thrids her way, the sounding flood 

Her melancholy lure ! 



172 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 

While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, 

And owls alone are waking, 
In white arrayed, glides on the maid, 

The downward pathway taking. 
That leads her to the torrent's side 

And to a holly bower ; 
By whom on this still night descried ? 
By whom in that lone place espied ? 

By thee, Sir Eglamoi-e ! 

A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, 

His coming step has thwarted. 
Beneath the boughs that heard their vows, 

Within whose shade they parted. 
Hush, hush, the busy sleeper see ! 

Perplexed her fingers seem, 
As if they from the holly tree 
Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly 

Flung from her to the stream. 

What means the spectre ? Why intent 

To violate the tree, 
Thought Eglamore, by which I swore 

Unfading constancy ? 
Here am I, and tomorrow's sun. 

To her I left, shall prove 
That bliss is ne'er so surely won 
As when a circuit has been run 

Of valor, truth, and love. 

So from the spot whereon he stood, 
He moved with stealthy pace ; 

And, drawing nigh, with his living eye, 
He recognised the face ; 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 173 

And whispers caught, and speeches small 

Some to the green-leaved tree, 
Some muttered to the torrent-fall, — 
" Roar on, and bring him with thy call ; 

I heard, and so may he ! " 

Soul-shattered was the knight, nor knew 

If Emma's ghost it were. 
Or boding shade, or if the maid 

Her very self stood there. 
He touched, what followed who shall tell ? 

The soft touch snapped the thread 
Of slumber — shrieking back she fell, 
And the stream Avhirled her down the dell 

Along its foaming bed. 

In plunged the knight ! when on firm ground 

The rescued maiden lay. 
Her eyes grew bright with blissful light. 

Confusion passed away ; 
She heard, ere to the throne of grace 

Her faithful spirit flew, 
His voice ; beheld his speaking face, 
And, dying, from his own embrace, 

She felt that he was true. 

So was he reconciled to life : 

Brief words may speak the rest : 
Within the dell he built a cell, 

And there was sorrow's guest ; 
In hermit's weeds repose he found, 

From vain temptations free ; 
Beside the torrent dwelling — bound 
By one deep heart-controlling sound 

And awed to piety. 



174 



Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course, 

Nor fear memorial lays, 
Where clouds that spread in solemn shade, 

Are edged with golden rays ! 
Dear art thou to the light of Heaven, 

Though minister of sorrow ; 
Sweet is thy voice at pensive even ; 
And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven, 

Shall take thy place with Yarrow ! 



TO 



UPON THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST-BORN CHILD, MARCH, 1833. 

" Turn porro puer, ut saevis projectus ab undis 
Navita ; nudus humi jacet," &c. — Lucretius. 

Like a shipvvreck'd sailor tost 
By rough waves on a perilous coast, 
Lies the babe, in helplessness 
And in tenderest nakedness, 
Filing by laboring nature forth 
Upon the mercies of the earth. 
Can its eyes beseech ? no more 
Than the hands are free to implore : 
Voice but serves for one brief cry. 
Plaint was it ? or prophecy 
Of sorrow that will surely come 7 
Omen of man's grievous doom ! 

But, O mother ! by tJie close 
Duly granted to thy throes ; 



175 



By the silent thanks now tending 
Incense-like to Heaven, descending 
Now to mingle, and to move 
With the gush of earthly love, 
As a debt to that frail creature, 
Instrument of struggling nature 
For the blissful calm, the peace 
Known but to this one release ; 
Can the pitying spirit doubt 
That for human-kind springs out 
From the penalty a sense 
Of more than mortal recompence ? 

As a floating summer cloud, 
Though of gorgeous drapery proud, 
To the sun-burnt traveller. 
Or the stooping laborer, 
Ofttiraes makes its bounty known 
By its shadows round him thrown ; 
So, by chequerings of sad cheer, 
Heavenly guardians, brooding near. 
Of their presence tell — too bright 
Haply for corporeal sight ! 
Ministers of grace divine 
Feelingly their brows incline 
O'er this seeming castaway 
Breathing, in the light of day. 
Something like the faintest breath 
That has power to bafile death — 
Beautiful, while very weakness 
Captivates like passive meekness ! 



176 



And, sweet mother! under warrant 
Of the universal Parent, 
Who repays in season due 
Them who have, like thee, been true 
To the filial chain let down 
From his everlasting throne, 
Angels hovering round thy couch, 
With their softest whispers vouch, 
That, whatever griefs may fret. 
Cares entangle, sins beset 
This thy first-born, and with tears 
Stain her cheek in future years, 
Heavenly succor, not denied 
To the babe, whate'er betide. 
Will to the woman be supplied ! 

Mother! blest be thy calm ease ; 
Blest the starry promises, 
And the firmament benign 
Hallowed be it, where they shine ! 
Yes, for them whose souls have scope 
Ample for a winged hope, 
And can eJirthward bend an ear 
For needful listening, pledge is here, 
That, if thy new-born charge shall tre; 
In thy footsteps, and be led 
By that other guide, whose light 
Of manly virtues, mildly bright. 
Gave him first the wished-for part 
In thy gentle virgin heart, 
Then, amid the storms of life 
Presignified by that dread strife 
Whence ye have escaped together, 
She may look for serene weather ; 



THE WARNING. 177 



In all trials sure to find 
Comfort for a faithful mind ; 
Kindlier issues, holier rest, 
Than even now await her prest. 
Conscious nursling, to thy breast ! 



THE WARNING, 

A SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. 

MARCH, 1833. 

List, the winds of March are blowing ; 

Her ground-flowers shrink, afraid of showing 

Their meek heads to the nipping air, 

Which ye feel not, happy pair ! 

Sunk into a kindly sleep. 

We, meanwhile, our hope will keep ; 

And if time leagued with adverse change 

(Too busy fear!) shall cross its range. 

Whatsoever check they bring, 

Anxious duty hindering, 

To like hope our prayers will cling. 

Thus, while the ruminating spirit feeds 
Upon each home-event as life proceeds. 
Affections pure and holy in their source 
Gain a fresh impulse, run a livelier course ; 
Hopes that within the father's heart prevail. 
Are in the experienced grandsire's slow to fail ; 
And if the harp pleased his gay youth, it rings 
To his grave touch with no unready strings, 
13 



178 THE WARNING. 

While thoughts press ou, and feelings overflow, 
And quick words round him fall like flakes of snow. 

Thanks to the powers that yet maintain their 
sway, 
And have renewed the tributary lay. 
Truths of the heart flock in with eager pace, 
And FANCY greets them with a fond embrace ; 
Swift as the rising sun his beams extends 
She shoots the tidings forth to distant friends ; 
Their gifts she hails (deemed precious, as they prove 
For the unconscious babe an unbelated love !) 
But from this peaceful centre cf delight 
Vague sympathies have urged her to take fligiit. 
She rivals the fleet swallow, making rings 
In the smooth lake where'er he dips his wings: 
— Rapt into upper regions, like the bee 
That sucks from mountain heath her honey fee ; 
Or like the warbling lark intent to shroud 
His head in sunbeams or a bowery cloud. 
She soars — and here and there her pinions rest 
On proud towers, like this humble cottage, blest 
With a new visitant, an infant guest — 
Towers where red streamei's float the breezy sky 
In pomp foreseen by her creative eye. 
When feasts shall crowd the hall, and steeple bells 
Glad proclamation make, and heights and dells 
Catch the blithe music as it sinks or swells ; 
And harbored ships, whose pride is on the sea, 
Shall hoist their topmost flags in sign of glee. 
Honoring the hope of noble ancestry. > 

But who (though neither reckoning ills assigned 
By nature, nor reviewing in the mind 
The track that was, and is, and must be, worn 
With weary feet by all of woman born) — 



THE WARNING. 179 

Shall now by such a gift with joy be moved, 

Nor feel the fulness of that joy reproved ? 

Not he, whose last faint memory will command 

The truth that Britain was his native land; 

Whose infant soul was tutored to confide 

In the cleansed faith for which her martyrs died ; 

Whose boyish ear the voice of her renown 

With rapture thrilled ; whose youth revered the 

crown 
Of Saxon liberty that Alfred wore, 
Alfred, dear babe, thy great proginetor ! 
— Not he, who from her mellowed practice drew 
His social sense of just, and fair, and true ; 
And saw, thereafter, on the soil of France 
Rash polity begin her maniac dance, 
Foundations broken up, the deeps run wild. 
Nor grieved to see, (himself not imbeguiled) — 
Woke from the dream, the dreamer to upbraid, 
And learn how sanguine expectations fade 
When novel trusts by folly are betrayed, — 
To see presumption, turning pale, refrain 
From further havoc, but repent in vain, — 
Good aims lie down, and perish in the road 
Where guilt had urged them on, with ceaseless 

goad. 
Till undiscriminating ruin swept 
The land, and wrong perpetual vigils kept; 
With proof before her that on public ends 
Domestic virtue virtually depends. 

Can such a one, dear babe ! though glad and 
proud 
To welcome thee, repel the fears that crowd 
Into his English breast, and spare to quake 
Not for his own, but for thy innocent sake .' 



180 THE WARNING. 

Too late — or, should the providence of God 

Lead, through blind ways by sin and sorrow trod. 

Justice and peace to a secure abode, 

Too soon — thou com'st into this breathing world : 

Ensigns of mimic outrage are unfurled. 

Who shall preserve or prop the tottering realm ? 

What hand suffice to govern the state-helm ? 

If, in the aims of men, the surest test 

Of good or bad (whate'er be sought for or profest) 

Lie in the means required, or ways ordained. 

For compassing the end, else never gained ; 

Yet governors and govern'd both are blind 

To this plain truth, or fling it to the wind : 

If to expedience principle must bow; 

Past, future, shrinking up beneath the incumbent 

now; 
If cowardly concession still must feed 
The thirst for power in men who ne'er concede; 
If generous loyalty must stand in awe 
Of subtile treason, with his mask of law ; 
Or with bravado insolent and hard, 
Provoking punishment, to win reward ; 
If office help the factious to conspire, 
And tbey who should extinguish, fan the fire — 
Then, will the sceptre be a straw, the crown 
Sit loosely, like the thistle's crest of down ;, 
To be blown off at will, by power that spares it 
Jn cunning patience, from the head that wears it. 

Lost people, trained to theoretic feud ; 
Lost above all, ye laboring multitude ! 
Bewildered whether ye, by slanderous tongues 
Deceived, mistake calamities for wrongs ; 
And over fancied usurpations brood, 
Oft snapping at revenge in sullen mood ; 



THE WARNING. 181 

Or from long stress of real injuries fly 

To desperation for a i-emedy ; 

In bursts of outrage spread your judgments wide, 

And to your wrath cry out, " Be thou our guide ;" 

Or, bound by oaths, come forth to tread earth's 

floor 
In marshalled thousands, darkening street and moor 
With the worst shape mock-patience ever wore ; 
Or, to the giddy top of self-esteem 
By flatterers carried, mount into a dream 
Of boundless suffrage, at whose sage behest 
Justice shall rule, disorder be supprest, 
And every man sit down as plenty's guest! 
— O for a bridle bitted with remorse 
To stop your leaders in their headstrong course ! 
Oh may the Almighty scatter with his grace 
These mists, and lead you to a safer place, 
By paths no human wisdom can foretrace ! 
May he pour round you, from worlds far above 
Man's feverish passions, his pure light of love, 
That quietly restoi-es the natural mien 
To hope, and makes truth willing to be seen ! 
Else shall your blood-stained hands in frenzy reap 
Fields gaily sown when promises wei-e cheap. 
Why is the past belied with wicked art. 
The future made to play so false a part. 
Among a people famed for strength of mind. 
Foremost in freedom, noblest of mankind ? 
We act as if we joyed in the sad tune 
Storms make in rising, valued in the moon 
Nought but her changes. Thus, ungrateful na- 
tion! 
If thou persist, and, scorning moderation. 
Spread for thyself the snares of tribulation, 



182 THE WARNING. 

Whom, then, shall meekness guard ? What saving 

skill 
Lie in forbearance, strength in standing still ? 
— ^.Soon shall the widow (for the speed of time 
Nought equals when the hours are winged with 

crime) 
Widow, or wife, implore on tremulous knee, 
From him who judged her lord, a like decree ; 
The skies will weep o'er old men desolate : 
Ye little-ones ! Earth shudders at your fate. 
Outcasts and homeless orphans 

But turn, my soul, and from the sleeping pair 
Learn thou the beauty of Omniscient care I 
Be strong in faith, bid anxious thoughts lie still ; 
Seek for the good and cherish it — the ill 
Oppose, or bear with a submissive will. 



If this gi-eat world of joy and pain 

Revolve in one sure track ; 
If freedom, set, will rise again, 

And virtue, flown, come back ; 
Wo to the pui-blind crew who fill 

The heart with each day's care ; 
Nor gain, from past or future, skill 

To bear, and to forbear 1 



183 



SONNET,* 

COMPOSED AFTER READING A NEWSPAPER OF THE DAY. 

" People ! your chains are severing link by link 
Soon shall the rich be levelled down — the poor 
Meet them half way." Vain boast ! for these the 

more 
They thus would rise, must low and lower sink 
Till, by repentance stung, they fear to think ; 
While all lie prostrate, save the tyrant few 
Bent in quick turns each other to undo, 
And mix the poison, they themselves must drink. 
Mistrust thyself, vain country ! cease to cry, 
" Knowledge will save me from the threatened 

wb." 
For, if than other rash ones more thou know, 
Yet on presumptuous wing as far would fly 
Above thy knowledge as they dared to go, 
Thou wilt provoke a heavier penalty. 

* This Sonnet ought to have followed No. VII. in the 
series of 1831, but was omitted by mistake. 



184 
LOVING AND LIKING: 

IRREGULAR VERSES, 

ADDRESSED TO A CHILD. 

[Ill the former editions of the author's Miscellaneous 
Poems are three pieces addressed to Children ; — the fol- 
lowing, a few lines excepted, is by the same Writer ; and, as 
it belongs to the same unassuming class of compositions, she 
has been prevailed upon to consent to its publication.] 

There's more in words than I can teach : 

Yet listen, child ! — I would not preach ; 

But only give some }3lain directions 

To guide your speech and your affections. 

Say not you love a roasted fowl, 

But you may love a screaming owJ, 

And, if you can, the unwieldy toad 

That crawls from his secure abode 

Within the mossy garden wall 

When evening dews begin to fall. 

Oh mark the beauty of his eye : 

What wonders in that circle lie ! 

So clear, so bright, our fathers said 

He wears a jewel in his head ! 

And when, upon some showery day, 

Into a path or public way 

A frog leaps out from bordering grass, 

Startling the timid as they pass, 

Do you observe him, and endeavor 

To take the intruder into favor; 

Learning from him to find a reason 

For a light heart in a dull season. 



LOVING AND LIKING. 185 

And you may love him in the pool, 

That is for him a happy school, 

In which he swims, as taught by nature, 

A pattern for a human creature, 

Glancing amid the water bright, 

And sending upward sparkling light. 

Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing 

A love for things that have no feeling : 

The spring's first rose, by you espied, 

J\Iay fill your breast with joyful pride ; 

And you may love the strawberry flower, 

And love the strawberry in its bower ; 

But when the fruit, so often praised 

For beauty, to your lip is raised. 

Say not you love the delicate treat, 

But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat. 

Long may you love your pensioner mouse, 

Though one of a tribe that torment the house : 

Nor dislike for her cruel sport the cat, 

That deadly foe of both mouse and rat ; 

Remember she follows the law of her kind. 

And instinct is neither wayward nor blind. 

Then think of her beautiful gliding form, 

Her tread that would not crush a worm. 

And her soothing song by the winter fire, 

Soft as the dying throb of the lyre. 

I would not circumscribe your love : 
It may soar with the eagle and brood with the dove, 
May pierce the earth with the patient mole, 
Or track the hedgehog to his hole, 
Loving and liking are the solace of life, 
They foster all joy, and extinguish all strife. 
You love your father and your mother, 
Your grown-up and your baby brother ; 



186 ST. BEES. 

You love your sister, and your friends, 

Aad countless blessings which God sends j 

And while these right affections play, 

You live each moment of your day ; 

They lead you on to full content, 

And likings fresh and innocent, 

That store the mind, the memory feed, 

A^nd prompt to many a gentle deed : 

But likings come, and pass away ; 

'Tis love that remains till our latest day : 

Our heavenward guide is holy love, 

And it will be our bliss with saints above. 



ST. BEES, 

SUGGESTED 

IN A STEAMBOAT OFF ST. BEES' HEADS, 

ON THE COAST OF CUMBEELAND. 

St. Bees' Heads, anciently called the Cliff of Baruth, are a 
conspicuous sea-mark for all vessels sailing in the N. E. 
parts of the Irish Sea. In a bay, one side of which is form- 
ed by the southern headland, stands the village of St. Bees ; 
a place distinguished, from very early times, for its religious 
and scholastic foundations. 

"St. Bees," say Nicholson and Bums, "had its name 
from Bega, an holy woman from Ireland, who is said to have 
founded here, about the year of our Lord 650, a small mon- 
astery, where afterwards a church was built in memory of 
her. 

" The aforesaid religious house, being destroyed by the- 



ST. BEES. 187 

Danes, was restored by William de Meschiens, son of Ra- 
nulph, and . brother of Ranulph de Meschiens, first Earl of 
Cumberland after the conquest ; and made a cell of a prior 
and six Benedictine monks to the Abby of St. Mary at 
York." 

Several traditions of miracles, connected with the founda- 
tion of the first of these religious houses, survive among the 
people of the neighborhood ; one of which is alluded to in 
the following Stanzas ; and another, of a somewhat bolder 
and more peculiar character, has furnished the subject of a 
spirited poem by the Rev. R. Parkinson, M. A., late Divin- 
ity Lecturer of St. Bees' College, and now Fellow of the 
Collegiate Church of Manchester. 

After the dissolution of the monasteries. Archbishop Grin- 
dal founded a free school at St. Bees, from which the coun- 
ties of Cumberland and Westmoreland have derived great 
benefit ; and recently, under the patronage of the Earl of 
Lonsdale, a college has been established there for the educa- 
tion of ministers for the English Church. The old Conven- 
tual Church has been repaired under the superintendence of 
the Rev. Dr Ainger, the Head of the College ; and is welj 
worthy of being visited by any strangers who might be led 
to the neighborhood of this celebrated spot. 

The form of stanza in the following piece, and something 
in the style of versification, are adopted from the " St. Mo- 
nica," a poem of much beauty upon a monastic subject, by 
Charlotte Smith : a lady to whom English verse is under 
greater obligations, than are likely to be either acknowledged 
or remembered. She wrote little, and that little unambi- 
tiously, but with true feeling for nature.] 

If life were slumber on a bed of down, 
Toil unimposed, vicissitudes unknown, 
Sad were our lot : no hunter of the hare 
Exults like him whose javelin from the lair 



188 ST. BEES. 

Has roused the lion ; no one plucks the rose, 
Whose proffered beauty in safe shelter blows 
'Mid a trim garden's summer luxuries, 
With joy like his who climbs on hands and knees, 
For some rax-e plant, yon headland of St. Bees. 

This independence upon oar and sail, 
This new indifference to breeze or gale. 
This strait-lined progress, furrowing a flat lea, 
And regular as if locked in certainty, 
Depress the hours. Up, spirit of the storm ! 
That courage may find something to perform ; 
That fortitude, whose blood disdains to freeze 
At danger's bidding, may confront the seas. 
Firm as the towering headlands of St. Bees. 

Dread cliff of Baruth ! that wild wish may sleep. 
Bold as if men and creatures of the deep 
Breathed the same element : too many wrecks 
Have struck th}'^ sides, too many ghastly decks 
Hast thou looked down upon, that such a thought 
Should here be welcome, and in verse en wrought : 
With thy stern aspect better far agrees 
Utterance of thanks that we have past with ease, 
As millions thus shall do, the headlands of St. Bees. 

Yet, while each useful art augments her store. 
What boots the gain if nature should lose more.' 
And wisdom, that once held a Christian place 
In man's intelligence sublimed by grace ? 
When Bega sought of yore the Cumbrian coast, 
Tempestuous winds her holy errand cross'd ; 
As high and higher heaved the billows, fahh 
Grew with them, mightier than the powers of death 



189 



She knelt in prayer — the waves their wrath ap- 
pease ; 

And from her vow well weighed in heaven's 
decrees, 

Rose, wljere she touched the strand, the Chauntry 
of St. Bees. 

" Cruel of heait were they, bloody of hand," 
Who in these wilds then struggled for command ; 
The strong were merciless, without hope the weak ; 
Till this bright stranger came, fair as day-break, 
And as a cresset true that darts its length 
Of beamy lustre from a tower of strength ; 
Guiding the mariner through troubled seas. 
And cheering oft his peaceful reveries. 
Like the fixed light that crowns yon headland of 
St. Bees. 

To aid the votaress, miracles believed 

Wrought in men's minds, like miracles achieved; 

So piety took root ; and song might tell 

What humanizing virtues round her cell 

Sprang up, and spread their fragrance wide around ; 

How savage bosoms melted at the sound 

Of gospel-truth enchained in harmonies 

Wafted o'er waves, or creeping through close trees, 

From her religious mansion of St. Bees. 

When her sweet voice, that instrument of love, 

Was glorified, and took its place, above 

The silent stars, among the angelic choir, 

Her chauntry blazed with sacrilegious fire. 

And perished utterly ; but her good deeds 

Had sown the spot that witnessed them with seeds 



190 ST. BEES. 

Which lay in earth expectant, till a breeze 

With quickening impulse answered their mute 

pleas, 
And lo ! a statelier pile, the abbey of St. Bees. 

There were the naked clothed, the hungry fed ; 

And charity extended to the dead 

Her intercessions made for the soul's rest 

Of tardy penitents ; or for the best 

Among the good (when love might else have slept, 

Sickened, or died) in pious memory kept. 

Thanks to the austere and simple devotees. 

Who, to that service bound by venial fees, 

Kept watch before the altars of St. Bees. 

Were not, in sooth, their requiems sacred ties 

Woven out of passion's sharpest agonies. 

Subdued, composed, and formalized by art, 

To fix a wiser sorrow in the heart ? 

The prayer for them whose hour was past away 

Said to the living, profit while ye may ! 

A little part, and that the worst, he sees 

Who thinks that priestly cunning holds the keys 

That best unlock the secrets of St. Bees. 

Conscience, the timid being's inmost light, 
Hope of the dawn and solace of the night, 
Cheers these recluses with a steady ray 
In many an hour when judgment goes astray. 
Ah ! scorn not hastily thsir rule who try- 
Earth to despise, and flesh to mortify ; 
Consume with zeal, in winged ecstacies 
Of prayer and praise forget their rosaries. 
Nor hear the loudest surges of St. Bees. 



ST. BEES. 391 

Yet none so prompt to succor and protect 
TLe forlorn traveller, or sailor wrecked 
On the bare coast ; nor do they grudge the boon 
Which staff and cockle hat and sandal shoon 
Claim for the pilgrim : and, though chidings sharp 
May sometimes greet the strolling minstrel's harp, 
It is not then when, swept with sportive ease, 
It charms a feast-day throng of all degrees, 
Brightening the archway of revered St. Bees. 

How did the cliffs and echoing hills rejoice 
What time the Benedictijie brethren's voice, 
Imploring, or commanding with meet pride, 
Summoned the chiefs to lay their feuds aside. 
And under one blest ensign serve the Lord 
In Palestine. Advance, indignant sword I 
Flanr-ing till thou from Panym hands release 
That tomb, dread centre of all sanctities 
Nursed in the quiet Abbey of St. Bees. 

On, champions, on! — But mark! the passing day 
Submits her intercourse to milder sway. 
With high and low whose busy thoughts from far 
Follow tiie fortunes which they may not share. 
While ill Judea fancy loves to roam, 
She helps to make a holy-land at home : 
The star of Bethlehem from its sphere invites 
To sound the crystal depth of maiden rights ; 
And wedded life, through scriptural mysteries, 
Heavenward ascends with all her charities, 
Taught by the hooded Celibates of St. Bees. 

Who with the ploughshare clove the barren moors, 
And to green meadows changed the swampy 
shores ? 



192 



Thinned the rank woods; and for the cheerful 

grange 
Made room where wolf and boar were used to 

range ? 
Who taught, and showed by deeds, that gentler 

chains 
Should bind the vassal to his lord's domains? 
The thoughtful monks, intent their God to please, 
For Christ's dear sake, by human sympathies 
Poured from the bosom of thy church, St. Bees I 

But all availed not ; by a mandate given 
Through lawless will the brotherhood was driven 
Forth from their cells ; — their ancient house laid 

low 
Jn reformation's sweeping overthrow. 
But now once more the local heart revives. 
The inextinguishable spirit strives. 
Oh may that power who hushed the stormy seas, 
And cleared a way for the first votaries. 
Prosper the new-born college of St. Bees ! 

Alas! the genius of our age from schools 

Less humble draws her lessons, aims, and rules. 

To prowess guided by her insight keen 

Matter and spirit are as one machine ; 

Boastful idolatress of formal skill 

She in her own would merge the eternal will: 

Expert to move in paths that Newton trod. 

From Newton's universe would banish God. 

Better, if reason's tx'iumphs match with these, 

Her flight before the bold credulities 

That furthered the first teaching of St. Bees. 



NOTE. 

St. Bees. Page 190. 

" Were not in sooth, their Requiems sacred ties." 
The author is aware that he is here treading upon tender 
ground ; but to the intelligent reader he feels that no apolog}' 
is due. The prayers of survivors, during passionate grief for 
the recent loss of relatives and friends, as the object of those 
prayers could no longer be the suffering body of the dying, 
would naturally be ejaculated for the souls of the departed ; 
the barriers between the two worlds dissolving before the 
power of love and faith. The ministers of religion, from 
their habitual attendance upon sick-beds, would be daily wit- 
nesses of these benign results ; and hence would be strongly 
tempted to aim at giving to them permanence, by embodying 
them in rites and ceremonies, recurring at stated periods. 
All this, as it was in course of nature, so was it blameless, 
and even praiseworthy ; but no reflecting person can view 
without sorrow the abuses which rose out of thus formalizing 
sublime instincts, and disinterested movements of passion, 
and perverting them into means of gratifying the ambition 
and rapacity of the priesthood. But, while we deplore and 
are indignant at these abuses, it would be a great mistake if 
we imputed the origin of the offices to prospective selfishness 
on the part of the monks and clergy : they were at first sin- 
cere in their sympathy, and in their degree dupes rather of 
their own creed, than artful and designing men. Charity is, 
upon the whole, the safest guide that we can take in judging 
our fellow- men, whether of past ages, or of the present time. 

13 



194 



[The three following Sonnets are an intended addition- lo* 
the "Ecclesiastical Sketches," the first to stand second; 
and the two that succeed, seventh and eighth, in the second 
part of the Series. — See the Author's Poems. — They are 
placed here as having some connexion with the foregoing- 
Poem.] 

Deplorable his lot who tills the gi'ound, 
His whole life long till.^ it, with heartless toil 
Of villain-service, passiijg with the soil 
To each new master, like a steer or hound, 
Or like a rooted tree, or stone earth-bound ; 
But, mark how gladly, through their own domains. 
The monks relax or break these iron chains ; 
While mercy, uttering, through their voice, a 

sound 
Echoed in Heaven, cries out, "^ Ye chiefs, abate 
These legalized oppressions ! Man whose name 
And nature God disdained not ; man, whose soul 
Christ died for, cannot forfeit his high claim 
To live and move exemjrt from all control 
Which fellow-feeling doth not mitigate I" 



THE VAUDOIS. 



But whence came they who for the Saviour Lord 
Have long borne witness as the scriptures teach ? 
Ages ere Valdo raised his voice to preach 
In Gallic ears the unadiiltei-ate'^vord, 
Their fugitive progenitors explored 



195 



iSubalpine vales, iu quest of safe retreats 

Where that pure church survives, though summer 

heats 
Open a passage to the Romish sword, 
Far as it dares to follove. Herbs self-sown. 
And fruitage gathered from the chesnut wood, 
Nourish the sufferers then 9 and mists, that brood 
O'er chasms with new-fallen obstacles bestrown. 
Protect them ^ and the eternal snow that daunts 
Aliens, is God's good winter for their haunts. 



Praised be the rivers, from their mountain-springs 
Shouting to freedom, " Plant thy banners here !" 
To harassed piety, " Dismiss thy fear, 
And in our cavei-ns smooth thy ruffled wings !" 
Nor be unthanked their tardiest lingerings 
^Mid reedy feus wide-spread and marshes drear, 
Their own creation, till their long career 
End in the sea engulphed. Such welcomings 
As came from mighty Po when Venice rose, 
Greeted those simple heirs of truth divine 
Who near his fountains sought obscure repose, 
Yet were prepared as glorious lights to shine, 
Should that be needed for their sacred charge 4 
Blest prisoners they, whose spiritsare at large! 



196 
THE REDBREAST. 

(suggested in a WESTMORELAND COTTAGE.) 

Driven in by autumn's sharpening air, 

From half-stripped woods and pastures bare. 

Brisk robin seeks a kindlier home : 

Not like a beggar is be come, 

But enters as a looked-for guest, 

Confiding in his ruddy breast, 

As if it were a natural shield 

Charged with a blazon on the field, 

Due to that good and pious deed 

Of which we in the ballad read. 

But pensive fancies putting by. 

And wild-wood sorrows, speedily 

He plays the expert ventriloquist ; 

And, caught by glimpses now — now missed. 

Puzzles the listener with a doubt 

If the soft voice he throws about 

Comes from within doors or without ! 

Was ever such a sweet confusion, 

Sustained by delicate illusion ? 

He's at your elbow — to your feeling 

The notes are from the floor or ceiling ; 

And there's a riddle to be guessed, 

'Till you have marked his heaving breast, 

Where tiny sinking and faint swell, 

Betray the elf that loves to dwell 

In robin's bosom as a chosen cell. 

Heart-pleased we smile upon the bird 
If seen, and with like pleasure stirred 
Commend him, when he's only heard. 



THE REDBREAST. 197 

But stnall and fugitive our gain 
Compared with his who long hath lain, 
With languid limbs and patient head, 
Reposing on a lone sick-bed ; 
Where now he daily hears a strain 
That cheats him of too busy cares, 
Eases his pain, and helps his prayers. 
And who but this dear bird beguiled 
The fever of that pale-faced child ! 
Now cooling, with his passing wing. 
Her forehead, like a breeze of spring ; 
Recalling now, with descant soft 
Shed round her pillow from aloft. 
Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh. 
And the invisible sympathy 
Of "Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
Blessing the bed she lies upon : " * 
And sometimes, just as listening ends 
In slumber, with the cadence blends 
A dream of that low-warbled hymn 
Which old-folk, fondly pleased to trim 
Lamps of faith now burning dim, 
Say that the cherubs carved in stone, 
When clouds gave way at dead of night, 
And the moon filled the church with light, 
Used to sing in heavenly tone. 
Above and round the sacred places 
They guard, with winged baby-faces. 

* The words — 

" Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
Bless the bed that I lie on," 
are part of a child's prayer, still in general use through the 
northern counties. 



98 THE REDBREAST. 

Thrice-happy creatures ! in all lands 
Nurtured by hospitable hands : 
Free entrance to this cot has he, 
Entrance and exit both yet free ; 
And, when the keen unruffled weather 
That thus brings man and bird together^ 
Shall with its pleasantness be past, 
And casement closed and door made &st,. 
To keep at bay the howling blast, 
He needs not fear the season^s rage, 
For the whole house is robin's cage. 
Whether the bird flit here or there. 
O'er table lilt, or perch on chair. 
Though some may frown, and make a stir 
To scare him as a ti'espasser. 
And he belike will flinch or start, 
Good friends he has to take his part ; 
One chiefly, who with voice and look 
Pleads for him from the chimney nook, 
Where sits the dame, and wears away 
Her long and vacant holiday ; 
With images about her heart. 
Reflected, from the years gone by, 
On human nature's second infancy. 



199 



TO . 

[Miss not the occasion ; by the forelock take 
That subtile power, the never-halting time, 
Lest a mere moment's putting -off should make 
Mischance almost as heavy as a crime.] 

■*' Wait, prithee, wait !" this answer Lesbia threw 
Forth to her dove, and took no further heed ; 
Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew 
Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed ; 
But from that bondage when her thoughts were 

freed 
She rose, and toward the close-shut casement drew, 
Whence the poor unregarded favorite, tnie 
To old affections, had been hem-d to plead 
With flapping wing for entrance. What a shriek 
Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a strain 
Of harmony 1 — a shriek of terror, pain, 
And self-reproach ! — for, from aloft, a kite 
Pounced, and the dove, which from its ruthless beak 
She could not rescue, perished in her sight ! 



RURAL ILLUSIONS. 

Stlph was it ? or a bird more bright 
Than those of fabulous stock ? 

A second darted by ; — and lo i 
Another of the flock, 



200 RURAL ILLUSIONS. 

Through sunsliine flitting from the bougfi 

To nestle in the rock. 
Transient deception ! a gay freak 

Of April's mimicries ! 
Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy 

Among the budding trees, 
Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the 
spray 

To frolic on the breeze. 

Maternal Flora ! show thy face. 

And let thy hand be seen 
Which sprinkles here these tiny flowers, 

That, as they touch the green, 
Take root (so seems it) and look up 

In honor of their queen. 
Yet, sooth, those little starry specks. 

That not in vain aspired 
To be confounded with live growths. 

Most dainty, most admired, 
Were only blossoms dropped from twigs 
Of their own offsjiring tired. 

Not such the world's illusive shows ; 

Her wingless flutterings, 
Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave 

The floweret as it springs. 
For the undeceived, smile as they may. 

Are melancholy things : 
But gentle Nature plays her part 

With ever- varying wiles, 
And transient feignings with plain truth 

So well she reconciles. 
That those fond idlers most are pleased 

Whom oftenest she beguiles. 



201 



THIS LAWN, &c 

This lawn, a carpet all alive 

With shadows flung from leaves — to striv( 

In dance, amid a press 
Of sunshine — an apt emblem yields 
Of worldlings revelling in the fields 

Of strenuous idleness ; 

Less quick the stir when tide and breeze 
Encounter, and to narrow seas 

Forbid a moment's rest ; 
The medley less when boreal lights 
Glance to and fro like airy sprites 

To feats of arms addrest ! 

Yet, spite of all this eager strife, 
This ceaseless play, the genuine life 

That serves the steadfast hours. 
Is in the grass beneath, that grows 
Unheeded, and the mute repose 

Of sweetly-breathing flowers. 



THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS. 

Flattered with promise of escape 

From every hurtful blast, 
Spring takes, O sprightly May ! thy shape. 

Her loveliest and her last. 



202 THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS. 

Less fair is summer riding high 

In fierce solstitial power, 
Less fair than when a lenient sky 

Brings on her parting hour. 

When earth repays with golden sheaves 

The labors of the plough, 
And ripening fruits and forest leaves 

All brighten on the bough, 

What pensive beauty autumn shows, 
Before she hears the sound 

Of winter rushing in, to close 
The emblematic round ! 

Such be our spring, our summer such ; 

So may our autumn blend 
With hoary winter, and life touch, 

"through heaven-born hope, her end. 



203 



HUMANITY. 

(WEITTEN IN THE YEAR 1829.) 

Not from his fellows only man may learn 
Rights to compare and duties to discern : 
All creatures and all objects, in degree, 
Are friends and patrons of humanity. — MS. 

[The Rocking-stones, alluded to in the beginning of the 
following verses, are supposed to have been used, by our 
British ancestors, both fur judicial and religous purposes. 
Such stones are not uncommonly found, at this day, both in 
Great Britain and in Ireland.] 

AVhat though the accused, upon his own appeal 
To righteous Gods when man has ceased to feeJ, 
Or at a doubting judge's stern command, 
Before the Stone of power no longer stand — 
To take iiis sentence from the balanced block 
iVs, at his touch, it rocks, or seems to rock ; 
Though, in the depths of sunless groves, no more 
The Druid-priest the hallowed oak adore ; 
Yet, for the initiate, rocks and whispering trees 
Do still perfoi-m mysterious offices! 
And still in beast and bird a function dwells. 
That, while we look and listen, sometimes tells 
Upon the heart, in more authentic guise 
Than oracles, or winged auguries. 
Spake to the science of the ancient wise. 
Not uninspired appear their simplest ways ; 
Their voices mount symbolical of praise — 
To mix with hymns that spirits make and hear; 
And to fallen man their innocence is dear. 



204 



Enraptured art draws from those sacred springs 

Streams that reflect the poetry of things ! 

Where Christian martyrs stand in hues portrayed, 

That, might a wish avail, would never fade. 

Borne in their hands the lily and the palm 

Shed round the altar a celestial calm ; 

There, too, behold the lamb and guileless dove " 

Prest in the tenderness of virgin love 

To saintly bosoms ! — Glorious is the blending 

Of right affections, climbing or descending 

Along a scale of light and life, with cares 

Alternate ; carrying holy thoughts and prayers 

Up to the sovereign seat of the Most High ; 

Descending to the worm in charity;* 

Like those good angels whom a dream of night 

Gave, in the field of Luz, to Jacob's sight; 

All, while he slept, treading the pendant stairs 

Earthward or heavenward, radiant messengers, 

That, with a perfect will in one accord 

Of strict obedience served the Almighty Lord ; 

And with untired humility forbore 

The ready service of the wings they wore. 

What a fair world were ours for verse to paint, 
If power could at ease with self-restraint ! 
Opinion bow before the naked sense 
Of the great vision, — faith in Providence ; 
Merciful over all existence, just 
To the least particle of sentient dust ; 
And, fixing by immutable decrees, 
Seedtime and harvest for his purposes ! 
Then would be closed the restless oblique eye 
That looks for evil like a treacherous spy ; 

* The author is indebted, here, to a passage in one of Mr 
Digby's valuable works. 



HUMAN IT V. 205 

Disputes would then relax, like stormy winds 
That into breezes sink ; irapetuous minds 
By discipline endeavor to grow meek 
As truth herself, whom they profess to seek. 
Then genius, shunning fellowship with pride, 
Would braid his golden locks at wisdom's side ; 
Love ebb and flow untroubled by caprice ; 
And not alone harsh tyranny would cease, 
But unoffending creatures find release 
From qualified oppression, whose defence 
Rests on a hollow plea of recompence ; 
Thought-tempered wrongs, for each humane re- 
spect 
Oft worse to bear, or deadlier in effect. 
Witness those glances of indignant scorn 
From some high-minded slave, impelled to spurn 
The kindness that would make him- less forlorn ; 
Or, if the soul to bondage be subdued. 
His look of pitiable gratitude ! 

Alas for thee, bright galaxy of isles, 
Where day departs in pomp, returns with smiles — 
To greet the flowers and fruitage of a land. 
As the sun mounts, by sea-born breezes fanned ; 
A land whose azure mountain-tops are seats 
For gods in council, whose green vales, retreats 
Fit for the shades of heroes, mingling there 
To breathe Elysian peace in upper air. 

Though cold as winter, gloomy as the grave, 
Stone-walls a prisoner make, but not a slave. 
Shall man assume a property in man ? 
Lay on the moral will a withering ban ? 
Shame that our laws at distance should protect 
Enormities, which they at home reject ! 



206 HUMANITY. 

"Slaves cannot breathe in England" — a proud 

boast ! 
And yet a mockery ! if, from coast to coast, 
Though fettered slave be none, her floors and soil 
Groan underneath a weiglit of slavish toil, 
f'or the poor many, measured out by rules 
Fetched with cupidity from heartless schools, - 
That to an idol, fklsely called " the wealth 
Of nations, " sacrifice a people's health, 
Body and mind and soul ; a thirst so keen 
Is ever urging on the vast machine 
Of sleepless labor, 'mid whose dizzy wheels 
The power least pi-ized is that which thinks and 

feels. 

Then, for the pastimes of this delicate age, 
And all the heavy or light vassalage 
Which for their sakes we fasten, as may suit 
Our varying moods, on human kind or brute, 
'T were well in little, as in great to pause, 
Lest fancy trifle with eternal laws. 
There are to whom even garden, grove, and field, 
Perpetual lessons of forbearance yield ; 
Who would not lightly violate the grace 
The lowliest flower possesses in its place ; 
Nor shorten the sweet life, too fugitive. 
Which nothing less than infinite power could give. 



207 



LINES 

S-JCrGESTED BY A PORTRAIT FROM THE PENCIL OF F. STONE. 

Beguiled into forgetfulness of care 

Due to the day's unfinished task, of pen 

Or book regai-dless, and of that fair scene 

In Nature's prodigality displayed 

Before my window, oftentimes and long 

I gaze upon a portrait whose mild gleam 

Of beauty never ceases to enrich 

The common light ; whose stillness charms the air 

Or seems to charm it into like repose ; 

Vi'hose silence for the pleasure of the ear, 

Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits 

With emblematic pui-ity attired 

In a white vest, white as her marble neck 

Is, and the pillar of the throat would be 

But for the shadow by the drooping chin 

Cast into that recess — the tender shade, 

The shade and light, both there and every where, 

And through the veiy atmosphere she breathes. 

Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill 

That might from nature have been learnt in the 

hour 
When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread 
Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er 
Thou be, that kindling with a poet's soul 
Hast loved the painter's true Promethean craft 
Intensely — from imagination take 
The treasure, what mine eyes behold see thou, 
Even though the Atlantic Ocean roll between. 



208 LINES ON A PORTRAIT. 

A silver line, that from brow to crown, 
And in the middle parts the braided hair. 
Just serves to show how delicate a soil 
The golden harvest grows in ; and those eyes 
Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky 
Whose azure depth their color emulates, 
Must needs be conversant with upward looks, 
Prayer's voiceless service ; but now, seeking 

nought 
And shunning nought, their own peculiar life 
Of motion they renounce, and with the head 
Partake its inclination towards earth 
In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness 
Caught at the point where it stops short of sadness. 

Offspring of soul-bewitching art, make me 
Thy confidant ! say, whence derived that air 
Of calm abstraction ? Can the rul-ng thought 
Be with some lover far away, or one 
Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted faith ? 
Inapt conjecture ! Childhood here, a moon 
Crescent in simple loveliness serene. 
Has but approached the gates of womanhood, 
Not entered them ; her heart is yet unpierced 
By the blind archer-god, her fancy free: 
The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere, 
Will not be found. 

Her right hand, as it lie? 
Across the slender wrist of the left arm 
Upon her lap reposing, holds — but mark 
How slackly, for the absent mind permits 
No firmer grasp — a little wild-flower, joined 
As in raposy, with a few pale ears 



LINES ON A PORTRAIT. 209 

Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped 
And in their common birthplace sheltered it 
' fill they were plucked together ; a blue flower 
Called by the thrifty husbandman a iveed; 
But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn 
That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held ' 
In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows, 
(Her father told her so) in youth's gay dawn 
Her mother's favorite ; and the orphan girl, 
In her own dawn — a dawn less gay and bright, 
Loves it while there in solitary peace 
She sits, for that departed mother's sake. 
— Not from a source less sacred is derived 
(Surely I do not err) that pensive air 
Of calm abstraction through the face diffused 
And the whole person. 

Words have something told, 
More than the pencil can, and verily 
More than is needed, but the precious art 
Forgives their interference — art divine, 
That both creates and fixes, in despite 
Of death and time, the marvels it hath wrought. 

Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours ! 
That posture, and the look of filial love 
Thinking of past and gone, with wliat is left 
Dearly united, might be swept away 
From this fair portrait's fleshly archetype, 
Even by an innocent fancy's slightest freak 
Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored 
To their lost place, or meet in harmony 
So exquisite ; but here do they abide, 
Enshrined for ages. Is not then the art 
14 



210 LIA'ES ON A PORTRAIT. 

Godlike, a humble branch of the diviae, 

In visible quest of inmioitalit}'^, 

Stretched forth with trembling hope ? In every 

realm, 
From high Gibralter to Siberian plains, 
Thousands, in each variety of tongue 
That Europe knows, would echo this appeal j. 
One above all, a monk who waits on God 
In the magnific convent built of yore 
■^fo sanctify the Escurial palace. He, 
Guiding from cell to cell and room to room, 
A British painter (eminent for truth 
In character, and depth of feeling, shown 
By labors that have touched the hearts of kings 
And are endeared to simple cottagers) 
Left not unvisited a glorious work, 
Our Lord's last Supper, beautiful as when first 
The appropriate picture, fresh from Titian's hand. 
Graced the refectory : and there, while both 
Stood with eyes fixed upon that masterpiece, 
The hoary father in the stranger's ear 
Breathed out these words : — " Here daily do we sit. 
Thanks given to God for daily bread, and hei-e. 
Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times, 
And thinking of my brethren, dead, dispei'sed, 
Or changed or changing, I not seldom gaze 
Upon this solemn company unmoved 
By shock of circumstance, or lapse of years, 
Until I cannot but believe that they — 
They are in truth the substance, we the shadows." 

So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs 
Melting away within him like a dream 



LINES ON A PORTRAIT. 211 

Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak: 
Aud I, grown old, but in a happier land. 
Domestic portrait ! have to verse consigned 
Into thy calm presence those heart-moving words : 
Words that can soothe, more than they agitate ; 
Whose spirit, like the angel that went down 
Into Bethesda's pool, with hesaling virtue 
Informs the fountain in the human breast 
That by the visitation was disturbed. 

But why this stealing tear ? Companion mute, 

On thee I look, not soiTowing ; fare thee well, 
My song's inspirer, once again farewell ! 

The pile of buildings, composing the palace and convent 
of San Lorenzo, has, in common usage, lost its proper name 
in that of the Escurial, a village at the foot of the hill upon 
which the splendid edifice, built by Philip the Second, stands. 
It need scarcely be added, that Wilkie in the painter alluded 



THE FOREGOING SUBJECT RESUMED. 

Among a grave fraternity of monks, 
For one, but surely not for one alon3, 
Triumphs, in that great work, the painter's skill, 
Humbluig the body, to exult the soul : 
Yet representing, amid wreck and wrong 
And dissolution and decay, the warm 
And breathing life of flesh, as if already 
Clothed with impassive majesty, and graced 
With no mean earnest of a heritage 



212 LINES ON A PORTRAIT. 

Assigned to it in future worlds. Thou, too^ 
With thy memorial flower, meek porti'aiture ! 
From whose serene companionship I passed, 
Pursued b}'^ thoughts that haunt me still ; tliot? 

also — 
Though but a simple object, into light 
Called forth by those affections that endear ■ 
The private heartli ; though keeping thy sole seat 
In singleness, and little tried by time. 
Creation, as it were, of yesterday — 
With a congenial function art endued 
For each and all of us, together joined, 
In course of nature, under a low roof 
By charities and duties that proceed 
Out of the bosom of a wiser vow. 
To a like salutary sense of awe. 
Or sacred wonder, growing with the power 
Of meditation that attempts to weigh. 
In faithful scales, things and their opposites. 
Can thy enduring quiet gently raise 
A household small and sensitive, — whose love, 
Dependent as in part its blessings are 
Upon frail ties dissolving or dissolved 
On earth, will be revived, we trust, in heaven. 

In the class entitled "Musings," in Mr Southey's Minor 
Poems, is one upon his own miniature Picture, taken in child- 
hood, and another upon a landscape painted by GasparPous- 
sin. It is possible that every word of the above verses, 
though similar in subject, might have been written had the 
author been unacquainted with those beautiful effusions of 
poetic sentiment. But for his own satisfaction, he must be 
allowed thus publicly to acknowledge the pleasure those 
two poems of his friend have given him, and the grateful 
influence they have upon his mind as often as he reads them, 
or thinks of them. 



213 



STANZAS ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 

ARGUMENT. 

The ear addressed, as occupied bj' a spiritual functionary, 
in communion with sounds, individual, or combined in stud- 
ied harmony. — Sources and effects of those sounds (to the 
close of 6th Stanza). — The power of music, whence pro- 
ceeding, examplified in the idiot. — Origin of music, and its 
effect in early ages — how produced (to the middle of 10th 
Stanza). — The mind recalled to sounds acting casually and 
severally. — Wish uttered (11th Stanza) that these could be 
united into a scheme or system of moral interests and intel- 
lectual contemplation. — (Stanza 12th.) The Pythagorean 
theory of numbers and music, with their supposed power 
over the motions of the universe — imaginations consonant 
with such a theory. — Wish expressed (in 11th Stanza) re- 
alised, in some degree, by the representation of all sounds 
under the form of thanksgiving to the Creator. — (Last 
Stanza) the destruction of earth and the planetary system — 
the survival of audible harmony, and its support in the 
Divine Nature as revealed in Holy Writ. 

Thy functions are ethereal, 

As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind, 

Organ of vision ! And a spirit aerial 

Informs the cell of hearing, dark and blind ; 

Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 

To enter than oracular cave ; 

Strict passage, through which tighs are brought 

And whispers, for the heart, their slave ; 

And shrieks, that revel in abuse 

Of shivering flesh ; and warbled air, 

Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 

The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile 



214 THE POWER OF SOUND. 

Into the ambush of despair ; 
Hosannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle, 
And requiems answered by the pulse that beats 
Devoutly, in life's last retreats ! 

The headlong streams and fountains 

Serve thee, invisible spirit, with untired pov^^ei's ; 

Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains, 

They lull perchance ten thousand thousand flowers. 

That roar, the prowling lion's Here I om. 

How fearful to the desert wide I 

That bleat, how tender ! of the dam 

Calling a straggler to her side. 

Shout, cuckoo ! let the vernal soul 

Go with thee to the frozen zone ; 

Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird, toll I 

At the still hour to mercy dear, 

Mercy from her twilight throne 

Listening to nun's faint sob of holy fear. 

To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea, 

Or widow's cottage lullaby. 

Ye voices, and ye shadows, 

And images of voice — to hound and horn 

From rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows 

Flung back, and, in the sky's blue caves, reborn, 

On with your pastime! till the church-tower bell& 

A greeting give of measured glee ; 

And milder echoes from their cells 

Repeat the bridal symphony. 

Then, or far earlier, let us rove 

Where mists are breaking up or gone. 

And from aloft look down into a cove 

Besprinkled with a careless quire. 



THE POWER OF SOUND. 215 

Happy milk-maids, one by one 
Scattering a ditty each to her desire, 
A liquid concert matchless by nice art, 
A stream as if from one full heart. 

Blest be the song that brightens 

The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's mirth ; 

Unscorned the peasant's whistling breath, that 

hghtens 
His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth. 
For the tired slave, song lifts the languid oar, 
And bids it aptly fall, with chime 
That beautifies the fairest shore, 
And mitigates the harshest clime. 
Yon pilgrims see — in lagging file 
They move ; but soon the appointed way 
A choral Ave Marie shall beguile. 
And to their hope the distant shrine 
Glisten with a livelier I'ay : 
Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine. 
Who from the well-ppring of his own clear breast 
Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 

When civic renovation 

Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste 
Best eloquence avails not, inspiration 
Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast 
Piping through cave and battlemented tower; 
Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet 
That voice of freedom, in its power 
Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet ! 
Who, from a martial pageant, spreads 
Incitements of a battle-day. 

Thrilling the unweaponed crowd with plumeless 
heads ; 



216 THE POWER OF SOUND. 

Even she whose Lydian airs inspire 

Peaceful striving, gentle play 

Of timid hope and innocent desire 

Shot from the dancing graces, as they move 

Fanned by the plausive wrings of love. 

How oft along thy mazes 

Regent of sound, have dangerous passions trod ! 

O thou, through whom the temple rings with 

praises. 
And blackening clouds in thunder speak of God, 
Betray not by the cozenage of sense 
Thy votaries, wooingly resigned 
To a voluptuous influence 
That taints the purer, better mind ; 
But lead sick fancy to a harp 
That hath in noble tasks been tried ; 
And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp, 
Soothe it into patience, — stay 
The uplifted arm of suicide ; 
And let some mood of thine in firm ai*ray 
Knit every thought the impending issue needs, 
Ere martyr burns, or patriot bleeds ! 

As conscience, to the centre 

Of being, smites with irresistible pain, 

So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter 

The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's brain. 

Transmute him to a wretch from quiet hurled — 

Convulsed as by a jarring din ; 

And then aghast, as at the world 

Of reason partially let in 

By concords winding with a sway 

Terrible for sense and soul ! 



THE POWER OF SOUND. 217 

Or, awed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. 

Point not these mysteries to an art 

Lodged above the starry pole ; 

Pure modulations flowing from the heart 

Of divine love, where wisdom, beauty, truth 

With order dwell, in endless youth ? 

Oblivion may not cover 

All treasures hoarded b}' the miser, time. 

Orphean insight! truth's undaunted lover. 

To the first leagues of tutored passion climb, 

When music deigned within this grosser sphere 

Her subtle essence to enfold, 

And voice and shell drew forth a tear 

Softer than nature's self could mould. 

Yet strenuous was the infant age : 

Art, daring because souls could feel. 

Stirred nowhere but an urgent equipage 

Of rapt imagination sped her march 

Through the i*ealms of wo and weal : 

Hell to the lyre bowed low ; the upper arch 

Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse 

Her wan disasters could disperse. 

The GIFT to King Amphion 

That walled a city with its melody 

Was for belief no dream ; thy skill, Arion ! 

Could humanize the creatures of the sea. 

Where men were monsters. A last grace he 

craves, 
Leave for one chant ; — the dulcet sound 
Steals from the deck o'er willing waves. 
And listening dolphins gather round. 
Self-cast, as with a desperate course, 
'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 



218 THE POWER OF SOUND. 

A proud one docile as a managed horse ; 
Aud singing, while the accordant hand 
Sweejis his harp, the master rides ; 
So shall he touch at length a friendly strand, 
And he, with his preserver, shines star-bright 
In memory, through silent night. 

The pipe of Pan, to shepherds 

Couched in the shadow of Menalian pines. 

Was passing sweet ; the eyeballs of the leopards 

That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines, 

How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang ! 

While fauns and satyrs beat the ground 

In cadence, — and Silenus swang 

This way and that, with wild-flowers crowned. 

To life, to life give back thine ear : 

Ye who ai-e longing to be rid 

Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear 

The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell 

Echoed from the coffin lid ; 

The convict's summons in the steeple knell. 

"The vain distress-gun," from a leeward shore, 

Repeated — heard, and heard no more ! 

For terror, joy, or pity, 

Vast is the compass, and the swell of notes : 

From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city. 

Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats 

Far as the woodlands — with the trill to blen d 

Of that shy songsti-ess, whose love-tale 

Might tempt an angel to descend. 

While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. 

O for some soul-affecting scheme 

Of moral music, to unite 

Wanderers whose portion is the faintest dream 



THE POWER OF SOUND. 219 

Of memory I — O that they might stoop to bear 

Chains, such precious chains of sight 

As labored minstrelsies tlirough ages wear I 

O for a balance fit the truth to tell 

Of the unsubstantial, pondered well ! 

By one pervading spirit 

Of tones and numbers all things are controlled, 

As sages taught, where faith was found to merit 

Initiation in that mystery old. 

The heavens, whose aspects makes our minds as still 

As they themselves appear to be 

Innumerable voices fill 

With everlasting harmony ; 

The towei'ing headlands, crowned with mist, 

Their feet among the billows, know 

That ocean is a mighty harmonist ; 

Thy pinions, universal air. 

Ever waving to and fro. 

Are delegates of harmony, and bear 

Strains that support the seasons in their round ; 

Stern winter loves a dirge-like sound. 

Break forth into thanksgiving. 

Ye banded instruments of wind and chords ; 

Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 

Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words! 

Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead. 

Nor mute the forest hum of noon : 

Thou too be heard, lone eagle ! freed 

From snowy peak and cloud, attune 

Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 

Of joy, that from her utmost walls 

The six-days' woi-k, by flaming seraphim, 

Transmits to heaven ! As deep to deep 



220 THE POWER OF SOUND. 

Shouting through one valley calls, 
All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep 
For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured 
Into the ear of God, their Lord ! 

A voice to light gave being ; 

To time, and man his earth-born chronicler; 

A voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing 

And sweep away life's visionary stir; 

The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride, 

Arm at its blast for deadly wars) 

To archangelic lips applied, 

The grave shall open, quench the stars. 

O silence ! are man's noisy years 

No more than moments of thy life ? 

Is harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears, 

With her smooth tones and discords just. 

Tempered into rapturous strife. 

Thy destined bond-slave ? No ! though earth be 

dust 
And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay 
Ts in the Word, that shall not pass away. 



I 



POSTSCRIPT. 



In the present volume, as in the author's previous poems, 
the reader will have found occasionally opinions expressed 
upon the course of public affairs, and feelings given vent to 
as national interests excited them. Since nothing, he trusts, 
has been uttered but in the spirit of reflective patriotism, 
those notices are left to produce their own effect ; but, among 
the many objects of general concern, and the changes going 
forward, which he has glanced at in verse,' are some espe- 
cially affecting the lower orders of society : in reference to 
these, he wishes here to add a few words in plain prose. 

Were he conscious of being able to do justice to those im- 
portant topics, he might avail himself of the periodical press 
for offering anonymously his thoughts, such as they are, to 
the world ; but he feels that, in procuring attention, they 
may derive some advantage, however small, from his name, 
in addition to that of being presented in a less fugitive shape. 
It is also not impossible that the state of mind which some 
of the foregoing poems may have produced in the reader will 
dispose him to receive more readily the impression the 
author desires to make, and to admit the conclusions he would 
establish. 

I. The first thing that presses upon his attention is the 
Poor-Law Amendment Act. He is aware of the magnitude 
and complexity of the subject, and the unwearied attention 
which it has received from men of far wider experience than 
his own ; yet !ie cannot forbear touching upon one point of 



Ji22 POSTSCRIPT. 

it, and to this he will confine himself, though noi insensible 
to the objection which may reasonably be brought against 
treating a portion of this, or any other, great scheme of civil 
polity separately from the whole. The point to which he 
wishes to draw the reader's attention is, that all persons 
who cannot find employment, or procure wages sufficient to 
support the body in health and strength, are entitled to main- 
tenance by law. 

This principle is acknowledged in the report of the Com- 
missioners : but is there not room for apprehension that some 
of the regulations of the new act have a tendency to render 
the principle nugatory by difficulties thrown in the way of ap- 
plying it ? If this be so, persons will not be wanting to 
show it, by examining the provisions of the act in detail, — 
an attempt which would be quite out of place here ; but it 
will not, therefore, be deemed unbecoming in one who fears 
that the prudence of the head may, in framing some of those 
provisions, have supplanted ihe wisdom of the heart, to en- 
force a principle which cannot be violated without infringing 
upon one of the most precious rights of the English people, 
and opposmg one of the most sacred claims of civilised 
humanity. 

There can be no greater error, in this department of legis- 
lation, than the belief that this principle does by necessity 
operate for the degradation of those who claim, or are so 
circumstanced as to make it likely they may claim, through 
laws founded upon it, relief or assistance. The direct con- 
trary is the truth : it may be unanswerably maintained that 
its tendency is to raise, not to depress ; by stamping a value 
upon life, which can belong to it only where the laws have 
placed men who are willing to work, and yet cannot find 
employment, above the necessity of looking for protection 
against hunger and other natural evils, either to individual 
and casual charity, to despair and death, or to the breach of 
law by theft or violence. 

And here, as the fundamental principle has been recog- 



POSTSCRIPT. U!2d 

nised in the report of the Commissioners, the author is not at 
issue with them anj"^ farther than he is compelled to believe 
that their " remedial measures" obstruct the application 
of that principle more than the interests of society require. 

And, calling to mind the doctrines of political economy 
which are now prevalent, he cannot forbear to enforce the 
justice of the principle, and to insist upon its salutary 
operation. 

And first for its justice : If self-preservation be the first 
law of our nature, would not every one in a state of nature 
be morally justified in taking to himself that which is indis- 
pensable to such preservation, where, by so doing, he would 
not rob another of that which might be equally indispensa- 
ble to his preservation ? And if the value of life be regarded 
in a right point of view, may it not be questioned whether 
this right of preserving life, at any expense short of endan- 
gering the life of another, does not survive man's entering 
into the social state ; whether this right can be surrendered 
or forfeited, except when it opposes the divine law, upon any 
supposition of a social compact, or of any convention for the 
protection of mere rights of property ? 

But, if it be not safe to touch the abstract question of man's 
right in a social state to help himself even in the last extrem- 
ity, may we not still contend for the duty of a Christian 
government, standing in loco parentis towards all its subjects, 
to make such effectual provision, that no one shall be in 
danger of perishing either through the neglect or harshness 
of its legislation ? Or, waving this, is it not indisputable 
that the claim of the state to the allegiance, involves the 
protection of the subject ? And, as all rights in one party 
impose a correlative duty upon another, it follows that the 
right of the state to require the services of its members, even 
to the jeoparding of their lives in the common defence, estab- 
lishes a right in the people (not to be gainsaid by utilitarians 
and economists) to public support when, from any cause 
they may be unable to support themselves. 



224 



POSTSCRIPT. 



Let us now consider the salutary and benign operation of 
this principle. Here we must have recourse to elementary 
feelings of human nature, and to truths which from their 
very obviousness are apt to be slighted, till they are forced 
upon our notice by our own sufferings or those of others. In 
the Paradise Lost, Milton represents Adam, after the Fall, 
as exclaiming in the anguish of his soul, — 

" Did I request Thee, Maker, from my clay 
To mould me man, did I solicit Thee 
From darkness to promote me ? 
***** My will 
Concurred not to my being." 

Under how many various pressures of misery have men 
been driven thus, in a strain touching upon impiety, to expos- 
tulate with the Creator ; and under few so afflictive as when 
the source and origin of earthly existence have been brought 
back to the mind by its impending close in the pangs of des- 
titution. But as long as, in our legislation, due weight shall 
be given to this principle, no man will be forced to bewail the 
gift of life in hopeless want of the necessaries of life. 

Englishmen have, therefore, by the progress of civilization 
among them, been placed in circumstances more favorable to 
piety, and resignation to the divine will, than the inhabitants 
of other countries, Avhere a like provision has not been es- 
tablished. And as Providence, in this care of our country- 
men, acts through a human medium, the objects of that care 
must, in like manner, be more inclined towards a grateful 
love of their fellow-men. Thus, also, do stronger ties attach 
the people to their country, whether whUe they tread its soil, 
or, at a distance, think of their native land as an indulgent 
parent, to whose arms, even they who have been imprudent 
and undeserving may, like the prodigal son, betake them- 
selves, without fear of being rejected. 

Such is the view of the case that would first present itself 
to a reflective mind ; and it is in vain to show, by appeals to 



POSTSCRIPT. 225 

experience, in contrast with this view, that provisions founded 
upon the principle have promoted profaneness of life, and 
dispositions the reverse of philanthropic, by spreading idle- 
ness, selfishness, and rapacity: for these evils have arisen, 
not as an inevitable consequence of the principle, but for want 
of judgment in framing laws based upon it ; and, above all, 
from faults in the mode of administering the law. The mis- 
chief that has grown to such a height from granting relief 
in cases where proper vigilance would have shown that it was 
not required, or in bestowing it in undue measure, will be 
urged by no truly enlightened statesman, as a sufficient reason 
for banishing the principle itself from legislation. 

Let us recur to the miserable states of consciousness that 
it preludes. 

There is a story told, by a traveller in Spain, of a female 
who, by a sudden shock of domestic calamity, was driven 
out of her senses, and ever after looked up incessantly to the 
sky, feeling that her fellow-creatures could do nothing for 
her relief. Can there be Englishmen who, with a good end 
in view, would, upon system, expose their brother Englishmen 
to a like necessity of looking upwards only ; or downwards 
to the earth, after it shall contain no spot where the destitute 
can demand, by civil right, what by right of nature they a,re 
entitled to? 

Suppose the objects of our sympathy not sunk into this 
blank despair, but wandering about as strangers in streets 
and ways, with the hope of succor from casual charity; 
what have we gained by such a change of scene ? Woful is 
the condition of the famished Northern Indian, dependent, 
among winter snows, upon the chance-passage of a herd of 
deer, from which one, if brought down by his rifle-gun, may 
be made the means of keeping him and his companions alive. 
As miserable is that of some savage Islander, who, when 
the land has ceased to affijrd him sustenance, watches for 
food which the waves may cast up, or in vain endeavors to 
extract it from the inexplorable deep. But neither of these 
15 



226 POSTSCRIPT. 

jS in a state of wretchedness comparable to that, which is so 
often endured in civilised society: multitudes, in all ages, 
have known it, of whom may be said : — 

" Homeless, near a thousand homes they stood, 
And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food." 

The author may justly be accused of wasting time in an 
uncalled-for attempt to excite the feelings of his reader, if 
systems of political economy, widely spread, did not impugn 
the principle, and if the safeguards against such extremities 
■vtrere left unimpared. It is broadly asserted by many, that 
every man who endeavors to find work, may find it : were 
this assertion capable of being verified, there still would 
remain a question, what kind of work, and how far may the 
laborer be fit for it ? For if sedentary work is to be ex- 
changed for standing; and some light and nice exercise of 
the fingers, to which an artisan has been accustomed all his 
life, for severe labor of the arms ; the best eflTorts would turn 
to little account, and occasion would be given for the un- 
thinking and the unfeeling unwarrantably to reproach those 
who are put upon such employment, as idle, froward, and 
unworthy of relief, either by law or in any other way ! 
Were this statement correct, there would indeed be an end of 
the argument, the principle here maintained would be super ■ 
seded. But, alas, it is far otherwise. That principle, appli- 
cable to the benefit of all countries, is indispensable for 
England, upon whose coast families are perpetually deprived 
of their support by shipwreck, and where large masses of 
men are so liable to be thrown out of their ordinary means 
of gaining bread, by changes in commercial intercourse, 
subject mainly or solely to the will of foreign powers ; by 
new discoveries in arts and manufactures ; and by reckless 
Jaws, in conformity with theories of political economy, which, 
whether right or wrong in the abstract, have proved a scourge 
to tens of thousands, by the abruptness with which they have 
been carried into practice. 



POSTSCRIPT. 227 

But it is ui^ed— refuse altogether compulsory relief to the 
able-bodied, and the number of those who stand in need of 
relief will steadily diminish, through a conviction of an ab- 
solute necessity for greater forethought, and more prudent 
care of a man's earnings. Undoubtedly it would, but so 
also would it, and in a much greater degree, if the legislative 
provisions were retained, and parochial relief administered 
under the care of the upper classes, as it ought to be. For 
it has been invariably found, that wherever the funds have 
been raised and applied under the superintendence of gen- 
tlemen and substantial proprietors, acting in vestries, and as 
overseers, pauperism has diminished accordingly. Proper 
care in that quarter would effectually check what is felt in 
some districts to be one of the worst evils in the poor law 
system, viz. the readiness of small and needy proprietors to 
join in imposing rates that seemingly subject them to great 
hardships, while, in fact, this is done with an understanding, 
which prepares the way for the relief that each is ready to 
bestow upon his still poorer neighbors being granted to him- 
self, or his relatives, when it shall be applied for. 

But let us look to inner sentiments of a nobler quality, in 
order to know what we have to build upon. Affecting proofs 
occur in every one's experience, who is acquainted with the 
unfortunate and the indigent, of their unwillingness to de- 
rive their subsistence from aught but their own funds or 
labor, or to be indebted to parochial assistance for the attain- 
ment of any object, however dear to them. A case was 
reported, the other day, from a coroner's inquest, of a pair 
who, through the space of four years, had carried about their 
dead infant from house to house, and from lodging to lodging, 
as their necessities drove them, rather than ask the parish to 
bear the expense of its interment : the poor creatures lived 
in the hope of one day being able to bury their child at their 
own cost. It must have been heart-rending to see and hear 
the mother, who had been called upon to account for the 
state in which the body was found, make this deposition. 



228 



POSTSCRrPT. 



She and her husband had, it is true, been once in prosrperity. 
But examples, where the spirit of independence works with 
equal strength, though not with like miserable accompani- 
ments, are frequently to be found even yet among the hum- 
blest peasantry and mechanics. There is not, then, sufficient 
cause for doubting that a like sense of honor may be revived 
among the people, and their ancient habits of independence 
restored, without resorting to those severities which the new 
Poor law Act has introduced. 

But even, if the surfaces of things only are to be examined, 
we have a right to expect that lawgivers should take into 
account the various tempers and dispositions of mankind ^ 
while some are led, by the existence of a legislative provision^ 
into idleness and extravagance, the economical virtues might 
be cherished in others by the knowledge, that if all their 
efforts fail, they have in the Poor Laws a "refuge from the 
storm and a shadow from the heat." Despondency and dis- 
traction are no friends to prudence : the springs of industry 
will relax, if cheerfulness be destroyed by anxiety ; without 
hope men become reckless, and have a sullen pride in adding; 
to the heap of their own wretchedness. He who feels that 
he is abandoned by his fellow men will be almost irresistibly 
driven to care little for himself; will lose bis self-respect 
accordingly, and with that loss- whart remains to him of 
virtue. 

With all due deference to the particular experience, and' 
general intelligence of the individuals who framed the Act, 
and of those who in and out of parliament have approved of 
and supported it ; it may be said, that it proceeds too much 
upon the presumption that it is a laboring man's own fault 
if he be not, as the phrase is, beforehand with the world. 
But the most prudent are liable to be thrown back by sick- 
ness, cutting them off from labor, and causing to them ex- 
pense ; and who but has observed how distress creeps upon 
multitudes without misconduct of their own ; and merely 
from a gradual fall in the price of labor, without a corres^ 



POSTSCRIPT. 229 

,poii(ient one in the price of provisions ; so that men who 
may have ventured upon the marriage state with a fair pros- 
pect of maintaining their families in comfort and happiness, 
see them reduced to a pittance which no effort of theirs can 
increase ? liet it be remembered, also, that there are thou- 
sands with whom vicious habits of expense are not the cause 
why they do not store up their gains ; but they are generous 
and kind-hearted, and ready to help their kindred and 
friends : moreover, they had a faith in Providence that those 
who have been prompt t-o assist others, will not be left desti- 
tute, should they themselves come to need. By acting from 
•these blended feelings, numbers have rendered themselves 
incapable of standing up against a sudden reverse. Never- 
theless, these men, in common with all who have the mis- 
fortune to be in want, if many theorists 'had their wish, 
would be thrown upon one or other of those three sharp 
points of condition before adverted to, from which the inter- 
vention of law has hitherto saved them. 

All that has been said tends to show how the principle 
■contended for makes the gift of life more valuable, and has, 
the writer hopes, led to the conclusion that its legitimate 
operation is to make men worthier of that gift : in other 
words, not to degrade but to exalt human nature. But the 
subject must not be dismissed without adverting to the indi- 
rect influence of the same principle upon the moral sentiments 
of a people among whom it is embodied in law. In our 
criminal jurisprudence there is a maxim, deservedly eulogised, 
that it is better that ten guilty persons should escape, than 
that one innocent man should suffer ; so, also, might it be 
maintained, with regard to the Poor Laws, that it is better 
for the interests of humanity among the people at large, that 
ten undeserTing should partake of the funds provided, than 
that one morally good man, through want of relief, should 
«ither have his principles corrupted, or his energies destroy- 
ed ; than that such a one should either be driven to do wrong, 
or be cast to the earth in utter hopelessness. In France, the 



230 



POSTSCRIPT. 



English maxim of criminal jurisprudence is reversed ; there, 
jt is deemed better that ten innocent men should suffer, than 
one guilty escape : in France, there is no universal provision 
for the poor ; and we may judge of the small value set upon 
human life in the metropolis of that countrj^, by merely no- 
ticing the disrespect with which, after death, the body is 
treated, not by the thoughtless vulgar, but in schools of 
anatomy, presided over by men allowed to be, in their own 
art and in physical science, among the most enlightened in 
the world. In the east, where countries are overrun with 
population as with a weed, infinitely more respect is shown 
to the remains of the deceased ; and what a bitter mockery 
is it, that this insensibility should be found where civil polity 
is so busy in minor regulations, and ostentatiously careful to 
gratify the luxurious propensities, whether social or intel- 
lectual, of the multitude ! Irreligion is, no doubt, much con- 
cerned with this offensive disrespect, shown to the bodies of 
the dead in France ; but it is mainly attributable to the state 
in which so many of the living are left by the absence of 
compulsory provision for the indigent, so humanely estab- 
lished by the law of England. 

Sights of abject misery, perpetually recurring, harden the 
heart of the community. In the perusal of history, and of 
works of fiction, we are not, indeed, unwilling to have our 
commiseration excited by such objects of distress as they 
present to us ; but in the concerns of real life, men know 
that such emotions are not given to be indulged for their own 
sakes : there, the conscience declares to them that sjonpathy 
must be followed by action ; and if there exists a previous 
conviction that the power to relieve is utterly inadequate to 
the demand, the eye shrinks from communication -with 
wretchedness, and pity and compassion languish, like any 
other qualities that are deprived of their natural aliment. 
Let these considerations be duly weighed by those Avho trust 
to the hope that an increase of private charity, with all its 
advantages of superior discrimination, would more than com- 



POSTSCRIPT. 231 

pensate for the abandoament of those principles, the wisdom 
of which has been here insisted upon. How discouraging, 
also, would be the sense of injustice, which could not fail to 
arise in the minds of the well-disposed, if the burthen of 
supporting the poor, a burdea of which the selfish have hith- 
erto by compulsion borne a share, should now, or hereafter, 
be thrown exclusively upon the benevolent. 

By having put an end to the Slave Trade and Slavery, the 
British people are exalted in the scale of humanity ; and 
they cannot but feel so, if they look into themselves, and 
duly consider their relation to God and their fellow-creatures. 
That was a noble advance ; but a retrograde movement will 
assuredly be made, if ever the principle which has been here 
defended, should be either avowedly abandoned, or but 
ostensibly retained. 

II. In a poem of the foregoing collection, the state of the 
workmen congregated in manufactories is alluded to. May 
the author here be permitted to say, that, after much reflec- 
tion upon this subject, he has not been able to discover a 
more effectual mode of alleviating the evils to which that 
class are liable, and establishing a better harmony between 
them and their employers, than by a repeal of such laws as 
prevent the formation of joint-stock companies ? The com- 
binations of masters to keep down, unjustly, the price of 
labor, would be fairly checked by these associations ; they 
would encourage economy, inasmuch as they would enable a 
man to draw profit from his savings, by vesting them in 
buildings or machinery for processes of manufacture with 
which he was habitually connected. His little capital would 
then be working for him while he was at rest or asleep : he 
would more clearly perceive the necessity of capital for car- 
rying on great works ; he would better learn to respect the 
larger portions of it in the hands of others; he would be 
less tempted to join in unjust combinations ; and, for the 
sake of his own property, if not for higher reasons, he would 
be slow to promote local disturbance, or endanger public 



232 POSTSCRIPT. 

tranquillity ; he would, at least, be loth to act in that way 
hnmoingly ; for it is not to be denied that such societies 
might be nurseries of opinions unfavorable to a mixed con- 
stitution of government, like that of Great Britain. The 
democratic and republican spirit which they might be apt to 
foster would not, however, be dangerous in itself, but only as 
it might act without being sufficiently counterbalanced, either 
by landed proprietorship, or by a Church extending itself so 
as to embrace an ever-growing and ever-shifting population 
of mechanics and artisans. But if the tendencies of such 
societies would be to make the men prosper who might 
belong to them, rulers and legislators should rejoice in the 
result, and do their duty to the state by upholding and ex- 
tending the influence of that Church to which it owes, in so 
great a measure, its safety, its prosperity, and its glory. 

This, in the temper of the present times, may be difficult, 
but it is become indispensable, since large towns in great 
numbers have sprung up, and others have increased tenfold, 
with little or no dependence upon the gentry and the landed 
proprietors; and apart from those mitigated feudal institu- 
tions, which, till of late, have acted so powerfully upon the 
composition of the House of Commons. Now it may be 
affirmed that, in quarters where there is not an attachment 
to the Church, or the landed aristocracy, and a pride in sup- 
porting them, there the people will dislike both, and be ready, 
upon such incitements as are perpetually recurring, to join 
in attempts to overthrow them. There is no neutral ground 
here : from want of due attention to the state of society in 
large towns and manufacturing districts, and ignorance or 
disregard of these obvious truths, innumerable well-meaning 
persons became zealous supporters of a Reform Bill, the 
qualities and powers of Avhich, whether destructive or con- 
structive, they would otherwise have been afraid of; and 
even the framers of that bill, swa3-ed as they might be by 
party resentments and personal ambition, could not have 
gone so far, had not they too been lamentably ignorant or 
neglectful of the same truths both of fact and philosophy. 



POSTSCRIPT. 233 

But let that pass ; and let no opponent of the bill be 
tempted to compliment his own foresight, bj' exaggerating 
the mischiefs and dangers that have sprang from it : let not 
time be wasted in profitless regrets ; and let those party dis- 
tinctions vanish to their very names that have separated men 
who, whatever course they may have pursued, have ever had 
a bond of union in the wish to save the limited monarchy, 
and those other institutions that have, under Providence, 
rendered for so long a period of time this country the hap- 
piest and worthiest of which there is any record since the 
foundation of civil society. 

III. A philosophic mind is best pleased when looking at 
religion in its spiritual bearing ; as a guide of conduct, a 
solace under affliction, and a support amid the instabilities 
of mortal life : but the Church having been forced by political 
considerations upon the notice of the author, while treating 
of the laboring classes, he cannot forbear saying a few words 
upon that momentous topic. 

There is a loud clamor for extensive change in that depart- 
ment. The clamor would be entitled to more respect if 
they who are the most eager to swell it with their voices 
were not generally the most ignorant of the real state of the 
Church, and the service it renders to the community. He- 
form is the word employed. Let us pause and consider 
what sense it is apt to carry, and how things are confounded 
by a lax use of it. The great religious Reformation, in the 
sixteenth century, did not profess to be a new construction, 
but a restoration of something fallen into decay, or put out 
of sight. That familiar and justifiable use of the word 
seems to have paved the way for fallacies with respect to 
the term reform, which it is difficult to escape from. Were 
we to speak of improvement, and the correction of abuses, 
we should run less risk of being deceived ourselves, or of 
misleading others. We should be less likely to fall blindly 
into the belief, that the change demanded is a renewal of 
something that has existed before, and that, therefore, we 



234 



POSTSCRIPT. 



have experience on our side; nor should we be equally 
tempted to beg the question, that the change for which we 
are eager must be advantageous. Prom generation to gene- 
ration, men are the dupes of words ; and it is painful to 
observe, that so many of our species are most tenacious of 
those opinions which they have formed with the least con- 
sideration. They who are the readiest to meddle with 
public affairs, whether in church or state, fly to generalities, 
that they may be eased from the trouble of thinking about 
particulars ; and thus is deputed to mechanical instrumental- 
ity the work which vital knowledge only can do well. 

" Abolish pluralities, have a resident incumbent in every 
parish," is a favorite cry ; but, without adverting to other 
obstacles in the way of this specious scheme, it may be ask- 
ed what benefit would accrue from its indiscriminate adop- 
tion to counterbalance the harm it would introduce, by nearly 
extinguishing the order of curates, unless the revenues of the 
church should grow with the population, and be greatly in- 
creased in many thinly-peopled districts, especially among 
the parishes of the North. 

The order of curates is so beneficial, that some particular 
notice of it seems to be required in this place. For a church 
poor as, relatively to the numbers of the people, that of Eng- 
land is, and probal)]y will continue to be, it is no small ad- 
vantage to have youthful servants, who will work upon the 
wages of hope and expectation. Still more advantageous is 
it to have, by means of this order, young men scattered over 
the country, who being more detached from the temporal 
concerns of the benefice, have more leisure for improvement 
and study, and are less subject to be brought into secular col- 
lision with those who are under their spiritual guardianship. 
The curate, if he reside at a distance from the incumbent, 
undertakes the requisite responsibilities of a temporal kind 
in that modified way which prevents him, as a new-comer, 
from being charged with selfishness : while it prepares him 
for entering ujjon a benefice of his own, with something of a 



POSTSCRIPT 235 

suitable experience. If he should act under and in co-opera- 
tion with a resident incumbent, the gain is mutual. His 
studies will probably be assisted ; and his training, managed 
by a superior, will not be liable to relapse in matters of pru- 
dence, seeraliness, or in any of the highest cares of his func- 
tions ; and by way of return for these benefits to the pupil, 
it will often happen that the zeal of a middle-aged or de- 
clining incumbent will be revived, by being in near commun- 
ion with the ardor of youth, when his own efforts may 
have languished through a melancholy consciousness that 
they have not produced as much good among his flock as, 
when he first entered upon the charge, he fondly hoped. 

Let one remark, and that not the least important, be added. 
A curate, entering^ for the first time upon his ofiice, comes 
from college after a course of expense, and with such inex- 
perience in the use of money, that, in his new situation, he 
is apt to fall unawares into pecuniary difiiculties. If this 
happens to him, much more likely is it to happen to the 
j^outhful incumbent; whose relations, to his parishioners 
and to society, are more complicated ; and, his income being 
larger and independent of another, a costlier style of living 
is required of him by public opinion. If embarrassment 
should ensue, and with that unavoidably some loss of respec- 
tability, his future usefulness will be proportionably impair- 
ed : not so with the curate, for he can easily remove and 
start afresh with a stock of experience and an unblemished 
reputation, whereas the early indiscretions of an incumbent 
being rarely forgotten, may be impediments to the efiicacy 
of his ministry for the remainder of his life. The same 
observations would apply with equal force to doctrine. A 
young minister is liable to errors, from his notions being 
either too lax or overstrained. In both cases it would prove 
injurious that the error should be remembered, after study 
and reflection, with advancing ^^ears, shall have brought him 
to a clearer discernment of the truth, and better judgment 
in the application of it. 



236 POSTSCRIPT. 

It must be acknowledged that, among the regulations of 
ecclesiastical polity, none at first view are more attractive 
than that which prescribes for every parish a resident incum- 
bent. How agreeable to picture to one's self, as has been 
done by poets and romance-writers, from Chaucer down to 
Goldsmith, a man devoted to his ministerial ofiice, with not 
a wish or a thought ranging beyond the circuit of its cares ! 
Nor is it in poetiry and fiction only that such characters are 
found ; they are scattered, it is hoped not sparingly, over 
real life, especially in sequestered and rural districts, where 
there is but small influx of new inhabitants, and little change 
of occupation. The spirit of the Gospel, unaided by acqui- 
sitions of profane learning and experience in the world, that 
spirit, and the obligations of the sacred office may, in such 
situations, suf&ce to effect most of what is needful. But 
for the complex slate of society that prevails in England, 
much more is required, both in large towns, and in many 
extensive districts of the country. A minister there should 
not only be irreproachable in manners and morals, but accom- 
plished in learning, as far as is possible without sacrifice of 
the least of his pastoral duties. As necessary, perhaps 
more so, is it that he should be a citizen as well as a scholar ; 
thoroughly acquainted with the structure of society, and the 
constitution of civil government, and able to reason upon 
both with the most expert ; all ultimately in order to support 
the truths of Christianity, and to difiuse its blessings. 

A young man coming fresh from the place of his education, 
cannot have brought with him these accomplishments ; and 
if the scheme of equalising church incomes, which many 
advisers are much bent upon, be realised, so that there 
should be little or no secular inducement for a clergyman to 
desire a removal from the spot where he may chance to have 
been first set down ; surely not only opportunities for ob- 
taining the requisite qualifications would be diminished, but 
the motives for desiring to obtain them would be proportion- 
ably weakened. And yet these qualifications are indispen- 



POSTSCRIPT. 237 

sable for the diffusion of that knowledge, by which alone 
the political philosophy of the New Testament can be rightly 
expounded, and its precepts adequately enforced. In these 
times, when the press is daily exercising so great a power 
over the minds of the people, for wrong or for right as may 
happen, that preacher ranks among the first of benefactors 
who, without stooping to the direct treatment of current 
politics and passing events, can furnish infallible guidance 
through the delusions that surround them ; and who, appeal- 
ing to the sanctions of Scripture, may place the grounds of 
its injunctions in so clear a light, that disaffection shall 
cease to be cultivated as a laudable propensity, and loyalty 
cleansed from the dishonor of a blind and prostrate obedi- 
ence. 

It is not, however, in regard to civic duties alone, that 
this knowledge in a minister of the Gospel is important ; it 
is still more so for softening and subduing private and per- 
sonal discontents. In all places, and at all times, men have 
gratuitously troubled themselves, because their survey of the 
dispensations of Providence has been partial and narrow ; 
but now that readers are so greatly multiplied, men judge as 
they are taught, and repinings are engendered everywhere, 
by imputations being cast upon the government, and are 
prolonged or aggravated by being ascribed to misconduct or 
injustice in rulers, when the individual himself only is in 
fault. If a Christian pastor be competent to deal with these 
humors, as they may be dealt with, and by no members of 
society so successfully, both from more frequent and more 
favorable opportunities of intercourse, and by aid of the 
authority with which he speaks ; he will be a teacher of 
moderation, a dispenser of the wisdom that blunts approach- 
ing distress by submission to God's will, and lightens, by 
patience, grievances which cannot be removed. 

We live in times when nothing, of public good at least, is 
generally acceptable, but what we believe can be traced to 
preconceived intention, and specific acts and formal c^ntri- 



238 POSTSCRIPT. 

vances of human understanding. A Christian instructor 
thoroughly accomplished would be a standing restraint upon 
such presumptaousness of judgment by impressing the truth 
that — 

In the unreasoning progress of the world 

A wiser spirit is at work for us, 

A better eye than ours. MS. 

Revelation points to the purity and peace of a future 
world ; but our sphere of duty is upon earth ; and the rela- 
tions of impure and conflicting things to each other must be 
understood, or we shall be perpetually going wrong in all 
but goodness of intention ; and goodness of intention will 
itself relax through frequent disappointment. How desira- 
ble, then, is it, that a minister of the Gospel should be 
versed in the knowledge of existing facts, and be accustomed 
to a wide range of social experience ! Nor is it less desira- 
ble for the purpose of counterbalancing and tempering in his 
own mind that ambition with which spiritual power is as apt 
to be tainted as any other species of power which men covet 
or possess. 

It must be obvious that the scope of the argument is to 
discourage an attempt which would introduce into the 
Church of England an equality of income, and station, upon 
the model of that of Scotland. . The sounder part of the 
Scottish nation know what good their ancestors derived 
from their church, and feel how deeply the living generation 
is indebted to it. They respect and love it, as accommodated 
in so great a measure to a comparatively poor country, 
through the far greater portion of which prevails a uniformity 
of employment ; but the acknowledged deficiency of theolo- 
gical learning among the clergy of that church is easily 
accounted for by this very equality. What else may be 
wanting there, it would be unpleasant to inquire, and might 
prove invidious to determine : one thing, however, is clear ; 
that in all countries the temporalities of the Church Estab- 



POSTSCRIPT. 239 

lishment should bear an analogy to the state of society 
otherwise it cannot diffuse its influence through the whole 
community. In a country so rich and luxurious as England, 
the character of its clergy must unavoidably sink, and their 
influence be everywhere impaired, if individuals from the 
upper ranks, and men of leading talents, are to have no 
inducements to enter into that body but such as are purely 
spiritual. And this " tinge of secularity" is no reproach to 
the clerg}', nor does it imply a deficiency of spiritual endow- 
ments. Parents and guardians, looking forward to sources 
of honorable maintenance for their children and wards, often 
direct their thoughts early towards the church, being deter- 
mined partly by outward circumstances, and partly by indi- 
cations of seriousness, or intellectual fitness. It is natural 
that a boy or youth, with such a prospect before him, should 
turn his attention to those studies, and be led into those 
habits of reflection, which will in some degree dispose and 
tend to prepare him for the duties he is hereafter to under- 
take. As he draws nearer to the time when he will be called 
to these duties, he is both led and compelled to examine the 
Scriptures. He becomes more and more sensible of their 
truth. Devotion grows in him ; and what might begin in 
temporal consideration, will end (as in a majority of instan- 
ces we trust it does) in a spiritual-mindedness not unwor- 
thy of that Gospel, the lessons of which he is to teach, and 
the faith of which he is to inculcate. Not inappositely may 
be here repeated an observation, which, from its obviousness 
and importance, must have been frequently made, viz. that 
the impoverishing of the clergy, and bringing their incomes 
much nearer to a level, would not cause them to become less 
worldly-minded : the emoluments, howsoever reduced, would 
be as eagerly sought for, but by men from lower classes in 
society ; men who, by their manners, habits, abilities, and 
the scanty measure of their attainments, would unavoidably 
be less fitted for their station, and less competent to discharge 
its duties. 



240 POSTSCRIPT. 

Visionary notions have in all ages been afloat upon the 
subject of best providing for the clerg}' ; notions which have 
been sincerely entertained by good men, with a view to the 
improvement of that order, and eagerly caught at and dwelt 
upon, by the designing, for its degradation and disparage- 
ment. Some are beguiled by what they call the voluntary 
system, not seeing (what stares one in the face at the very 
threshold) that they who stand in most need of religious 
instruction are unconscious of the want, and therefore cannot 
reasonably be expected to make any sacrifices in order to 
supply it. Will the licentious, the sensual, and the depraved, 
take from the means of their gratifications and pursuits, to 
support a discipline that cannot advance without uprooting 
the trees that bear the fruit which they devour so greedily 7 
Will they pay the price of that seed whose harvest is to be 
reaped in an invisible world ? A voluntary system for the 
religious exigences of a people numerous and circumstanced 
as we are ! Not more absurd would it be to expect that a 
knot of boys should draw upon the pittance of their pocket- 
money to build schools, or out of the abundance of their dis- 
cretion be able to select fit masters to teach and keep them 
in order ! Some, who clearly perceive the incompetence and 
folly of such a scheme for the agricultural part of the people 
nevertheless think it feasible in large towns, where the rich 
might subscribe for the religious instruction of the poor. 
Alas ! they know little of the thick darkness that spreads 
over the streets and alleys of our large towns. The parish 
of Lambeth, a few years since, contained not more than one 
church and three or four small proprietary chapels, while 
dissenting chapels of every denomination were still more 
scantily found there ; yet the inhabitants of the parish 
amounted at that time to upwards of 50,000. Were the 
parish church and the chapels of the establishment existing 
there, an impediment to the spread of the gospel among that 
mass of people ? Who shall dare to say so 7 
For the preservation of the Church Establishment, all 



POSTSCKIPT. 241 

men, whether they belong to it or not, could they i^erceive 
their true interest, would be strenuous : but how inadequate 
are its provisions for the needs of the country ! and how 
much is it to be regretted thai, while its zealous friends 
yield to alarms on account of the hostility of dissent, they 
should so much over-rate the danger to be apprehended from 
that quarter, and almost overlook the fact that hundreds of 
thousands of our fellow-countrymen, though formally and 
nominally of the Church of England, never enter her places 
of worship, neither have they communication with her min- 
isters ! This deplorable state of things seems partly owing 
to a decay of zeal among the rich and iniiuential, and partly 
to a want of due expansive power in the constitution of the 
Establishment as regulated by law. Private benefactors, in 
their efforts to build and endow churches, have been frus- 
trated, or too much impeded, by legal obstacles : these, 
where they are unreasonable or unfitted for the times, ought 
to be removed ; and, keeping clear of intolerance and in- 
justice, means should be used to render the presence and 
powers of the church commensurate with the wants of a 
shifting and still-increasing population. 

This cannot be effected, unless the English Government 
vindicate the truth, that, as her church exists for the benefit 
of all (though not in an equal degree), whether of her com- 
munion or not, all should be made to contribute to its sup- 
port. If this ground be abandoned, the not remote conse- 
quence will be, the infliction of a wound upon the moral 
heart of the English people, from which, till ages shall have 
gone by, it will not recover. 

But let the friends of the church be of good courage. 
Powers are at work, by which, under Divine Providence, she 
may be strengthened and the sphere of her usefulness ex- 
tended ; not by alterations in her Liturgy, accommodated 
to this or that demand of finical taste, nor by cuttmg off this 
or that from her Articles or Canons, to which the scrupulous 
or the overweening may object. Covert schism, and open 
16 



242 tOSTSCilll'T. 

nonconformii}'-, would survive after alterations, hotvever pro- 
mising in the eyes of those whose subtiltj^had been exercised 
in making them. Latitudinarianism is the parhelion of 
liberty of conscience, and will ever successfully lay claim to 
a divided worship. Among Presbyterians, Socinians, Bap- 
tists, and Independents, there will always be found numbers 
who will tire of their several creeds, and some will come 
over to the Church. Conventicles may disappear, congre- 
gations in each denomination may fall into decay or be 
broken up, but the conquests which the National Church 
ought chiefly to aim at, lie among the thousands and tens of 
thousands of the unhappy outcasts who grow up without 
religion at all. The wants of these cannot but be feelingly 
remembered. 

Moreover, the force of public opinion is rapidly increasing : 
and some may bend to it, who are not so happy as to be 
swayed by a higher motive : especially they who derive large 
incomes from lay-impropriations, in tracts of country where 
ministers are few and meagerly provided for. A claim still 
stronger may be acluiowledged by those who, round their 
superb habitations or elsewhere, walk over vast estates 
which were lavished upon their ancestors by royal favoritism, 
or purchased at insignificant prices after church-spoliation ; 
such proprietors, though not conscience-stricken (there is no 
call for that) may be prompted to make a return for which 
their tenantry and dependents will learn to bless their names.. 
An impulse has been given ; an accession of means from 
these several sources, co-operating with a iceZZ-considered 
change in the distribution of some parts of the property at 
present possessed by the church, a change scrupulously 
founded upon due respect to law and justice, will, we trust, 
bring about so much of what her friends desire, that the 
rest may be calmly waited for, with thankfulness for what 
shall have been obtained. 

Let it not be thought unbecoming in a layman, to have 
treated at length a subject with which the clergy are more 



POSTSCRIPT. 243 

intimately conversant. All may, without impropriety, speak 
of what deeply concerns all ; nor need an apology be offered 
for going over ground which has been trod before so ably 
and so often ; without pretending, however, to anything of 
novelty, either in matter or manuer, something may have 
been offered to view, which will save the writer from the 
imputation of having little to recommend his labor, but 
goodness of intention. 

It was with reference to thoughts expressed in verse, that 
the author entered upon the above notices, and with verse he 
will conclude. The passage is extracted from his MSS. 
written above thirty years ago : it turns upon the individual 
dignity which humbleness of social condition does not pre- 
clude, but frequently promotes. It has no direct bearing 
upon clubs for the discussion of public affairs, nor upon 
political or trade-unions; but if a single workman — wbo, 
being a member of one of those clubs, runs the risk of be- 
coming an agitator, or who, being enrolled in a union, must 
be left without a will of his own, and therefore a slave — 
should read these lines, and be touched by them, the author 
would indeed rejoice, and little would he care for losing 
credit as a poet with intemperate critics, who think differ- 
ently from him upon political pihlosophy or public measures, 
if the sober-minded admit that, in general views, his affec- 
tions have been moved, and his imagination exercised, under 
and for the guidance of reason. 



*' Here might I pause, and bend in reverence 
To Nature, and the power of human minds; 
To men as they are men within themselves. 
How oft high service is pei'formed within. 
When all die external man is rude in show: 
Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold. 
But a mere mountain chapel that protects 
Its simple worshippers from sun and shower! 
Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these, 
If future years mature me for the task. 
Will I record the praises, making verse 



244 FOSTSCRIPT. 

Deal boldly with substantial things — in truth 

And sanctity of passion speak of these, 

That justice may be done, obeisance paid 

Where it is due. Thus haply shall I teach, 

Inspire, through unadulterated ears 

Pour rapture, tenderness^ and hope; my theme 

No other than the very heart of man. 

As found among the best of those who live. 

Not unexaked by religious faith. 

Nor uniformed by books, good books, though {eWf 

In Nature's presence: thence may I select 

Sorrow that is not sorrow, but deliglit. 

And misei-able love that is not pain 

To hear of, for the glory that redounds 

Therefrom to human kind, and what we are. 

Be mine to follow with no timid step 

Where knowledge leads me; it shall be my pride 

That I have dared to tread this holy grouml. 

Speaking no dream, but things oracular. 

Matter not lightly to be heard by those 

Who to the letter of the outward promise 

Do read the invisible soul; by men adroit 

In speech, and for communion with the world 

Accomplished, minds whose faculties are then 

Most active when tliey are most eloquent. 

And elevated most when most admired. 

Men may be found of other mould than these j 

Who are their own upholders, to themselves 

Encouragement, and energy, and will; 

Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words 

As native passion dictates. Others, too. 

There are, among the walks of homely life. 

Still higher, men for contemplation framed ; 

Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase 

Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink 

Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse. 

Their's is the language of the heavens, the power. 

The thought, the image, and the silent joy: 

Words are but under-agents in their souls; 

When they are grasping with their greatest strength 

They do not breathe among them ; this I speak 

In gratitude to God, who feeds our hearts 

For his own service, knoweth, loveth us. 

When we are unregarded by the world," 



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